speaking in playlist

It's a piece of plastic that has a ribbon of black protruding out of the slit in the bottom, akin to a sound wave. It allows for anything but the sound it mimics, should one put it into the player and press that clunky play button. Instead, a pencil is rammed into one of the twin holes, winding, winding, until everything is right and tight again. This is technology. This is the mix tape. It's a silvery thing with a murky midriff, alcohol-swabbed clean. It's a bootlegger's best friend, the downloader of the virus, the carrier of songs found off of someone's Bandcamp that undoubtedly did not stand the test of time in the death of the modern internet. These songs are most often incredible, and will be rediscovered via YouTube algorithm some ten years later, where people will be taking turns commenting here first, who was born whenever, and other common greetings of the comment world. This is the internet age. This is the burned CD. It's considerably less cool, it's a signifier of the…