Casey floats on the surface of the North Sea, sunlit and semi-divine. He doesn’t sell a product. He sells possibility. Not truth. Not vulnerability. Just a version—curated, calibrated, colour-graded. This isn’t confession. It’s composition. A surface so shiny you can see yourself in it, if you squint. The ocean could be real or rendered—does it matter? He isn’t selling sand between your toes; he’s selling the idea that the toes exist at all.

There’s no attempt at truth. The audience isn’t watching performance; they’re witnessing projection. Not of Casey, but of want. A fantasy with a pulse. He doesn’t need to be “authentic,” just to be seen. It’s identity as spectacle, selfhood as still life. We keep looking for something real. But maybe real is the illusion. Maybe the game was always dress-up. Maybe the dream is best viewed through a filter, Instagram’s ‘Rio De Janeiro’.

Casey doesn’t promise meaning, only a feeling. Sometimes, that’s more than enough. Hey, at least he has a billboard!