Where is the voice that said altered carbon would free us from the cells of our flesh?
The visions that said we would be angels.

He loves thee not, but th' eternal tyranny bids him love thou,
As blinding golden sands encircle his gorg'd mouth,
What poor excess is this fat and bloody monarch,
Keep your jester close and your fool nearer still,
For his burden is beyond words or count,
An echeless sentiment, a prickless trap, A craven impulse.