The less we log off, the truer it is: physical space is no place. Life's a long-form loiter in a portal, till the service is severed. Such was the headspace of MacArthur Park deep web crawler Afterhours when crafting the ten softly glowing proxy improvisations of Post-Geography. Shades of his night-trawler trip-hop and 4 AM house still seep through ("Raw Algebraic," "Semi-Dusk Edit") but the bulk of the album is vibrantly grid-scrambled and dissociative, randomly accessed memories Pachinko-plinking through locked skyscraper malls and neon metropolitan infrastructures; in his words, "a Memphis-designed tumor, sexless and wobbling." The amorphousness of these pieces gives the sides a spastic yet syrupy cohesion, melting-clock beats smeared with plastic synth designs and patchworks of corrupted muzak. Everyone knows everywhere is nowhere.