Visiting rooms of this house formerly inhabited by breathing bodies

While struggling against the chafe in an older-issue HazMat suit

Did not much profit my enterprise; clusters of multicolored masses swarmed around my boots,

Dispersed only by my flashlight. Light again scattering the unjust?

Such is the fault of my ingrained morality,

As these abominations did not will themselves to life,

Nor seek me out. "Products of their environment," the lot,

Reacting to my weird ways. I scoop some into my hands,

Their movements a more perfect dance than humanity's history.