Postscript from the Pavement
Truth be told, this was harder than it looks. The shoebox cars? Easy. Everything else? A polite disaster. George Benson’s still standing, somehow—propped up by stubborn pixels and jazz pride. Behind him looms the Lady of Limited Air Supply, her silhouette sucking the life out of the street like a sentient vacuum. The anatomy’s a mess, but so is memory. Maybe this piece isn’t Abbey Road—it’s what Abbey Road feels like when you’re two tracks deep, three hours asleep, and wondering if smooth jazz can survive a low-res apocalypse.
Ralph Rumpelton
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