Clark, Larry. Kids. 1995. Film. Web. 

This is the part they never see. Well, this is the part that they don't want to see. They want to see orange trees, branches weighed down with fruits the size of softballs and so vibrant it almost hurts your eyes to look at them for too long. They want to see palm trees with stalks taller than the Tower of Terror and friendly fronds waving down at them, an organic welcome. They don't want to see the inner-city kids with nothing better to do than walk up and down the piss and trash-littered streets, formulating ideas amongst eachother about how to make today a little more interesting than the one before. They barely have enough change in their pockets for the bus, let alone for a ticket to gawk at a gawdy castle that nobody ever lived in. They speak in east coast tongues, slang so urban that the outsiders who might happen to cross their paths wouldn't even bother to try and translate for themselves. On the way to the park, they pass the usual: ragged homeless sitting outside run-down barber shops, a styrofoam cup by their feet, not even bothering to vocally beg for change; girls who look far too young wearing crop tops and cut-off overalls, licking melted popsicle residue from their fingers. It's so hot that that even the palm trees remain still, lost for words without a breeze.