Miami Vice
Palm Haze

I sail through the web with my little 3D boat, the square sun sets on the horizon, and the pixel sea darkens and fogs over my view. The stars do not light up the sky and my WASD movements are useless in the absolute void. A shadow in the distance approaches, there is more than one, I see palm trees, I see sand, I see people swimming between giant pixels. The brick dawn peeks behind me, it's a new era.

I pass the delimitation buoys and find myself in the '80s, no more old school 3D, now people are faded forms, warm and cool colors, mixed like in VHS tapes where you recorded Fievel. Where are you, Fievel Toposkovich? The Cold War is over and he has returned to Moscow.

Rhythms from pachyderm-like disco, like in Capannina in Jesolo, where those who flaunt it do so all summer. The Algida cornetto stays silent, only singles eat it this time, while Sammontana always teases the wettest prey with its tongue.

At the console, master keyboardists with mandated synthesizers, someone sends obsessive and sad loops, perhaps out of boredom, perhaps for a lifetime, but at least you are bored in company.

Doors that open and close on temporally distant worlds, but were the '80s so tacky? Perhaps we want them back to be a little happier and not depress ourselves with every future thought we propose, but the more you listen to vaporwave, the more it saddens you, but did anyone ever sing "Cosa Resterà Di Quest'Anni '60?", I would understand many things.

P.S.: You're right Kor, there is no "vaporwave", G we demand it, we are the children of boredom, we demand!