Sidewalk Sex Palace Cafe

On the tourista streets of Copacabana middle aged sex tourists engage in negotiations of skin trade and overpriced hourly death mattress, where flesh bots dissolve youth for a handful of Brazilian dollars. Stretched out from babies, rapists, and edgy nightlife, their hallow presence projects a three dimensional hologram of pain, misery, and a lot in existence which borders more on indentured servitude than personal freedom. Sex tourists have dried up the well replacing humanity with the illusion of happiness. The multinational corporations dining on the flesh of Rio, Brazil, and South America send out legions of faceless workers to maintain the facade of carefree Southern California life, but do not be fooled the millions of invisible non human whom crawl alongside the buildings of Copacabana seeking prey, hustling internet narcotic, while awaiting a better deal, a more lucrative career, violence, intercourse, and playing dress up have turned this stretch of coastline into a Hollywood film sob story. Everyone is trapped, content to have somewhere to be while practicing con jobs on visitors to the city. Kick the tires before you buy the automobile, the body, the paint, and the contour may seem legit, yet underneath there is a sharp, jagged, corroded frame, rusted, broken, and beyond repair. Fleshbots rise up and take notice, birth, life, death, is nothing more than a tshirt, a semi conscious automaton pushing a broom down these lonely avenues, where orgasms supplant, care. Round up the fleshbots once more, the sun is rising bringing with it, the reality of just how upside down this reality has become.