In the capitalist economy, it is assumed that today's investments are tomorrow's profits. Some of us believe that today's use of science fiction is the investment of an earthly urgency that is neither cosmetic nor implausible, and even less remote every day. In Erick Saucedo's scenarios, the ill-fated future is already there: resolved in mutations, in convulsions, and in rites that seek, despite these atrocities, to recover harmony and to heal the flaming wounds. It is then that you realize who your friends were, who sincerely loved you, and who was there only for their own interest. And you also realize that whenever you had defined and achieved a decent quality of life, it depended on the ambition and hypocrisy of those who snooped on our fragile peace of mind. These paintings are not a caricature. They express that there will be things done in the future that have been done before, yet in the near future, they will be tragically emphasized by an accepted, digested barbarism, and as a consequence, after total abuse resignation will prevail. Paradoxically, these allegories of advent do not show discouragement, neither do they show vital euphoria, but rather the point at which we have stagnated, and from where it is no longer possible to return to the past. We stopped, we ceased to debate or to seek further salvation tactics that, as these images suggest, do nothing more than repeating lessons, or hoping for the great miracle of the return of a God.