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...