Samples Of Tv Programme Proposals

Joy

to experience what the greatest heroes of novels experience!
unspeakable terror, terror that takes guts, unreal anxiety, panic, finally, because there is more than her. There never was it.
If a beloved painter paints us at this moment, we'd have the same features as Courbet, the same traits that the man of Munch, his hand on the face to feel the truth of another, materiality. These are beautiful faces, that side of the world.
Slip into a nightmare. The nightmare is nothing other than that, loved that environment becomes suddenly a tiny fraction of a second, an unknown place, a place where the Maccabees dangerous dance. This environment is like most is nothing. There is no longer the soft blankets, because they no longer exist, there is more heat from the teddy bear, and more than cats because they have abandoned this place. The ones who are able to see what man does not see, they saw the shadow of the Great God Pan and the Panic. They fled, and they were right.
The ancients said that the succubus sat on the bellies of men and choked her. Hungarian witches who like to ride anything and everything, then smother them into horses with great fanfare ancient magic, unless the man moved, the most sensible way that is, swapping the skin of the human against the animal, his breath short exchanging cons inflamed nostrils of the horse, black as Hell. At least the Hungarian Witches of compassion and open the windows to their victims ... the black horses can breathe, then take a deep breath, blow, and run on the moors or in the gray streets of Budapest and singing. They spread terror among the Virgins and bishops.
Others do not let this chance as it is.
ago an ounce of joy in this panic, an ounce of joy because a door was opened, a door that leads on the other hand, this also makes the shadow of the animated tiger on the wall. Of joy because we know now what the unspeakable terror. Few have this knowledge. No need to go out for it, and to be agoraphobic. Anyway, what one feels deep in his bed is a thousand times worse. And that, while the throat tightens, we do not suspect.
The wind blows while you suffocate, the storm is raging, hosted by Aeolus, who decided not to leave humanity alone, then it blows so much that nobody can sleep, not even to rest, especially not one who is in the arm of Strangeness. Everyone who is crying and curled up in these arms, there certainly can not let go, because his heart beats too fast, and that his arms are numb, and her gasping for air. The brain is paralyzed. One idea gaining ground in the tundra it is important not sleep, could not see the dawn. The walls of the narrow room and rats inside the walls, scratching as they can, hoping to find an outlet behind the dash and the shadow of the tiger roars, and that roar is the string that vibrates the whole body. This body lives only by that scream. The walls were destroyed. The wall has not held under the blows of a claw and tooth of the assailants. Leaving only the wind blowing and the hand of Pan, which closes on the heart. State second. Almost a trance.
The drops of sweat on the skin are burns, and muscles are made of stone, we are only the ruins of our past or our future, and we need the blessing of the Great God Pan to remind us, when we tend to forget these things, that we are distracted for a moment.
Be vigilant. Death, the Grim Reaper, the Grim Reaper, there is more that in this small space. The little white pills have replaced the laudanum, one that took the pretty Mortes time past, because the greatest luxury some people here is just to sleep. Note on his sleep and is two words that could be Sister Sleep . Those that sleep fled from her sister would be like to dive into the warm nights, which had been promised in the past.
Instead, the nights are woven of strangeness and singularity, and Panic is the sum of those nights, those sleepless nights, those nights as question marks, where fear meets fear. Nights like invocations. One night, someone answers the call mute, and the answer was expected of us took fright. All that are words on a page, a verb that debunks the name that precedes it, and these words are the reality. The squeaks of rats behind the wall of reality. The roar of the tiger, reality.
Never sleep, never rest, just numbness. A
narcosis.
is the reign of terror.

Vintage Shower Curtain Black And White

The balls in the bag

These are beads that have lived.
These are beads that have seen it all, the playground and asphalt, the corners of the earth in the forest next door. They remember the texture, softness and warmth of the hands of children who were held in the hollow of their palms. They remember the violence of the shock, and pleasure, hidden in the iris of the little guy, the girl, who had proudly earned.
The beads have a story. They are the victories, they are failures. They liked the victory, a little less these failures. These failures are synonymous farewell. Since their creation, they know it is their lot, to pass from hand to hand. They find new homes that are welcoming. Most often, these houses are pockets, pockets velvet pockets with holes, pockets full of crumbs, because they are filled the last cookie that did not feel like eating. The beads
tell their stories to those who know the look. The beads know the difference between seeing and looking. The beads are learning that shade to those who observe them.
It was courageous. A full afternoon sun, when the children had their eyes blinded with light, she was violently thrown against a stone. She lost a bit, a tiny bit, but the ball knows it has crippled the value for the little girl who won it, because this little girl has always loved the cracks, even if she does not know yet exactly what it is. This one is sublime, because by looking good, it filters all the rays of the sun and becomes kaleidoscope. It must be up, up into the sky. Right: it is blue! A Left: it is green!
Once launched, nothing stopped them. They whirl and twirl. They fly and fall to earth. They rush and strike. Joy to type on it, another joy of this aim. The hand is the instrument, not the ball. You will be mine. It's a cruel game: one player will learn the meaning of renunciation. We think, a little, just because there are few children to cry for a few lost balls. Some, however, have cried a lot when he had to give to another, the victor, horrible hated conqueror. We retain his tears in front of him, especially not tremble, and gesture is noble when to give. But under the pillow, the tears flow.
All this is injustice, and sacrifice has been enormous.
Balls are magical. Very few know. Their name is a call to travel. The fight was tough, so we need to rest, lying down on the ground, one arm folded behind his head and one arm resting on the ground, his hand on the grass, where the ants are busy, and think of Cat's Eye, Porcelain, Tornado and Calot, that we'll soon shake in his hands until the pain.
Cat's Eye is the one that sparkles. Porcelain is more discreet. Cap is the strongest of all. They are made of glass or earthenware, and are round like the iris.
It touches the ball in the pocket. The roll under your fingers, feel the gentle one, the roughness of the other, to gently collide to stream their own music. Looking at them, touch them, again and again. The
hide, well sheltered, when you have more time to play. Because we have more time to play. But the hide, because we know their value, and regardless of the passage of time. They will be there. In the shelter. I hide from you because I love you. I will go before you, from time to time, and the memories come back. And sometimes, as the hours, days and nights, it is possible that this is painful, but never mind!
A crossing time. The hours passed so quickly ...
One day a cat paw clumsily brought down the potty. No reaction. While the body is frozen, his mouth opened with a silent scream. This is a crime of lese-majeste. We can not stop the fall of the jar. We see it hit the ground, breaking into a thousand pieces, you see the ball rolling. And they resume, as before, their wild ride. We laugh, because it is impossible not to laugh. The heart is racing and the hand remembers perfectly, gesturing to have. Pick them up, hold them gently in the hollow of the palm. The balls have not forgotten. No one has forgotten. The memories are there, because they always been there.
It's time for recess.
And then, kneeling on the floor of a small chamber ill row, I start a game of marbles with wonderful cats.