Given; for a moment, an infinite creator,
Geppetto in his workshop installing censors,
deciding which I/O and which processor.
What minuscule tools you have given
for us to unwind your creation,
reverse engineer ourselves from our innards.
Given; not an object, but a process,
star matter and time twisting in a helix,
in unending revision improving forever.
What purpose for us then, we aware
for this moment, passing in frail bodies
in some middle place along pointless creation.