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PROBLEMS IN THE "FIRST WORLD

At last managed to write the first word and as he did a tear slid down her cheek. The frequency was accurate, a tear for every two words as he began writing with minimal fluid, until he noticed that the paper was falling apart under the trembling circles of moisture that had inadvertently caused. He hurried to clean it, but as they hand over all the ink stains was scattered, drawing a kind of watercolor furious after that could hardly read what has been written. Crumpled paper. She had told herself that her last words should be somewhat important, not the madness of a seal either drunk or the last ritual of a psychopath, but well defined their parents had a lot of times. No hated life, hated his life, embedded in a straitjacket by their parents and almost inert because of the fucking pills antipsychotic for not wanting to be like the rest.


PROBLEMS "more green (what fun)" IN THE THIRD WORLD

The car stopped in front of the tiny little cabin where they had traditionally lived. Like westerns, could almost hear the tune that indicated that there would duel to the death. The "stupid white man had arrived." The back door opened and an elderly man looking healthy and well dressed out of the car dust staining their expensive shoes. He waved his hand and got darker front window. Said something to the driver and nodded. The mysterious gentleman began his path to the door, where he was waiting for the owner, a tall, thin black race (?) Dressed (?) That were almost pieces of shirt (or shirts) and a small torn panties. They talked a while and then the white man fired. When out of sight, the other man (just a kid) hit hard part of what was left of the screen door. She swallowed her tears and kept that envelope containing less money than it costs here a cotton shirt, which is much worse if one considers that he picked cotton on a daily basis to make a whole lot of shirts for any sports shop. And he is one of the lucky ones "living" in that third of the world.

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VINCENT IS THE FIRST FILM OF DIRECTOR TIM BURTON.




Vincent Malloy is seven years old,
He's always polite and does What He's Told.

For a boy his age he's considerate and nice,
But he wants to be just like Vincent Price.

He doesn't mind living with his sister, dog and cat,
Though he'd rather share a home with spiders and bats.

There he could reflect on the horrors he's invented,
And wander dark hallways alone and tormented.

Vincent is nice when his aunt comes to see him,
But imagines dipping her in wax for his wax museum.

He likes to experiment on his dog Abacrombie,
In the hopes of creating a horrible zombie.

So he and his horrible zombie dog,
Could go searching for victims in the London fog.

His thoughts aren't only of ghoulish crime,
He likes to paint and read to pass the time.

While other kids read books like Go Jane Go,
Vincent's favorite author is Edgar Allen Poe.

One night while reading a gruesome tale,
He read a passage that made him turn pale.

Such horrible news he could not survive,
For his beautiful wife had been buried alive.

He dug out her grave to make sure she was dead,
Unaware that her grave was his mother's flower bed.

His mother sent Vincent off to his room,
He knew he'd been banished to the tower of doom.

Where he was sentenced to spend the rest of his life,
Alone with a portrait of his beautiful wife.

While alone and insane, encased in his tomb,
Vincent's mother suddenly burst into the room.

"If you want to you can go outside and play.
It's sunny outside and a beautiful day."

Vincent tried to talk, but he just couldn't speak,
The years of isolation had made him quite weak.

So he took out some paper, and scrawled with a pen,
"I am possessed by this house, and can never leave it again."

His mother said, "You're not possessed, and you're not almost dead.
These games that you play are all in your head.

You're not Vincent Price, you're Vincent Malloy.
You're not tormented, you're just a young boy."

"You're seven years old, and you're my son,
I want you to get outside and have some real fun."

Her anger now spent, she walked out through the hall,
While Vincent backed slowly against the wall.

The room started to sway, to shiver and creak.
His horrid insanity had reached its peak.

He saw Abacrombie his zombie slave,
And heard his wife call from beyond the grave.

She spoke from her coffin, and made ghoulish demands.
While through cracking walls reached skeleton hands.

Every horror in his life that had crept through his dreams,
Swept His mad laugh to terrified screams.
To escape the madness, I Reach for the door, So I

historical and horrible zombie dog, But Fell
limp and lifeless down on the floor. WAS

His voice soft and very slow,
As I quoted The Raven from Edgar Allen Poe,

"And my soul from out That shadow floating on the floor,
Shall be Lifted - Nevermore!"

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the lost world, not found, the searched and "progress" by TIM BURTON

began to walk around the room looking more closely at the back of every book, every volume of the encyclopedia, each cassette. After a while he bent down and I could see the start of migration in his earlier combed top. "My uncle is beginning to be Calvet" I thought, and the idea of seeing my young buddy bright head made me laugh. Set his sights on a book and said something. The truth is that he had been all the while talking about books they had read of the room, but had not said anything interesting. Looking at the volume he said: "1984 ... and what happened at the end in that year? Nothing happened ... "I was watching him against the wall, I looked with my eyes of nine or eight years and commented:" In 1984 the premium was born Mary. " He smiled and went to the movies. Whenever he came we went to the movies.

At that time I did not know what he meant. I assumed he meant that nothing happened special in that year and wrote a book called 1984 was nonsense.

what exactly is prophecy? Guess who? "Asimov? "Huxley? "Dick? ... "Orwell?

why none of his works in the future world (or this alternative) is better? Why even a brave new world only believes to be happy?