Sandfly

Sandfly: Choose Sandfly.
Choose Beachlife. Choose epic beach voyeurism. Choose the original. Choose the legend. Choose his video canon. Choose a big fucking monitor to watch them on, or a tablet device, maybe and ipad, the latest phone you were railroaded into purchasing at the fruit shop by the ever-so-self-satisfied almost-millennial slave of corporate identity thieves that raped the Beatles record label for inspiration, or the fucked-up reset laptop you bought from the dodgy ebay account when you were out your face on the illicit high of your personal preference. Choose vicarious thrills. Choose to marvel at this Sandfly hyper-reality. Choose to grin. Choose to toil at your miserable workstation for the grizzled bastard boss who surrendered hope to mundanity and joy to bleak tears of frustrated ambition decades ago. Choose not to be browbeaten, safe in the knowledge he's out there burning among the dust of stones form the dawn of time, delivering the sweet everyday awesome you never saw but knew was floating in the ether, those blinks of eternity seized from the fading grasp of forever. Choose to remian bound in happy thrall to the mythical maniac's maniacal offerings. Choose the glorious truth. Choose the unstaged, unbound, perfect zyzygy of the perpetual zenith that is the alternative zeitgeist he creates. Choose life. Choose the Messiah of the Playa. Choose Wow!

Choose Sandfly.