The transmitter’s size says nothing about the total jolt of the message: what are we if not the exquisite parquetrywork of chromosomes, retarded or voluptuous by assignment of perhaps a single gene? Oh nodes no larger than peas can double us over, and these are the casters on which well-being wheels. One scant nodded yes or stuttered no will drive an entire life from its route. We need to be attentive, to the smallest rising moon above a cuticle, to the lilliput taj mahal of blue at the center of any red flame, to the slimmest syllable love or politics utters, yes and because our forgiveness is the flimsiest mote in the galaxy’s eye and our tenderness as well, we need to practice them daily, turn to someone who matters and practice them daily, as if repetition does count, for suffering’s armory of small but endless plaguemarks adds a grief to a grief and finally strikes with the strength of a huge blunt instrument, and even the least of our comforts and dignities needs to be archived, kept well-lubed and, when required, marshaled in attempt to be a counterbalancing force.
–from Albert Goldbarth’s brilliant essay entitled Delft