A Glance Over the World from the Point of View of a Science Fiction Writer who Assumes That Time Is Waved to All Directions
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You are either Napoleon, or Elvis, or Godzilla or Berlioz, or the old beggar lady who wished me good luck last night for giving her a banknote, or Sartre or Eminem or Vangelis or Larry King or Nostradamus or the entire encyclopedia.
It is for you they perverted the cinema art. They looked for the images of Hitler or Tito or Bush or Blair or Dudaev or Putin or Mata Hari's propaganda, at the sinking of the sense of the terrible Titanic, a film that states the principle of order of the new world that some say malevolently that would state that healthy people are rescued by poor people.
But healthy people lost their mission, the shop girls of the aporia gossip.
Healthy people are arrested within the body of the hungry mass as the obsolescent philosopher is arrested by utopias. The obsolescent philosopher waits for the sub-lunar crowds of the mines, where the miners are ready to invade downtown, marching symbolically with a carnation at their buttonhole, and he writes about the expired fragmented being, lustily.
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