Mixtape had a few bits to his name—the leftover change that had not been enough for the motel. He crawled out of the abandoned building when true hunger finally hit him, suddenly spurred out of depression and into survival. Hunger was ravenous; overbearing. He ordered two hayburger meals from the cheapest restaurant he could find. He ate them at the blue tables on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Passers-by gave him odd glances. 

When his money ran out, he would starve. The cold would freeze him if he didn't starve. A homeless shelter felt dishonest. He didn't know why.

The hayburgers were cheap, like the ones his dad used to buy him. His mother had been jealous of his cutie mark. She called it evil. It was why she left. Maybe, like cassettes, his life needed rewound and played again—it would be redundant; perhaps cathartic. Albums never changed played forward. Maybe his life needed played backward to understand its meaning.

He slunk back to his hiding place in the abandoned factory, taking his plastic cup with him so he could get refills from other restaurants. Upon returning, he went through his box. In it were priceless records and cassettes, and even some CDs and DVDs he kept for old repeat customers. Some CDs were regular music, but most were songs for fillies and colts. Just like the CDs, DVDs were movies for little ones. Sky Venture and Velvet never returned to pick them up. He hadn't seen them in moons. Perhaps they forgot. 

Outside, the orange streetlights turned on, casting dim orange rays through cracks in the plywood drilled over the windows. He slept restlessly.

The next day, he took the box with him and went to the nearest safe and crowded intersection.

"Buy a CD?" he yelled over the crowd.

"Fuck you!" somecreature yelled.

Mixtape kept it up, begging to sell what he had to whoever would pay him mind. Some generous ponies and creatures gave him just bits, uninterested in what was in the box. He was able to eat with the meager earnings of that day.

One day, a coral pegasus approached him, a giant smile on her face.

"What kind of stuff do you have?" she asked.

"CDs, DVDs, tapes if you can use 'em," Mixtape said, shuffling backwards out of the paths of pedestrians. The mare followed. He sat his box down on stairs outside a closed corner store. He laid the disc cases out for the mare to look at—muscle memory; nopony wanted tapes anymore. The pegasus puckered her lips into a frown.

"Are any of the cassettes for sale?" she asked.

Were they for sale? His favorite things? In the city, alone, there was no use for them. Ponies and creatures crowded past them in the long silence. He said, finally, "Maybe."

The mare's face lit up, her lips pulling into a huge smile and eyes wide. She pointed at an old tape of The Elixir. Mixtape pulled it into his magic. He spun it around in front of his face.

"What price are you thinking?" he asked. He pushed the tape closer to the pegasus so she could see it more clearly. She rocked side-to-side, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"Fifty?" she offered. She knew her stuff.

"That would be much appreciated," Mixtape said. "However..." his voice trailed off. Taxis raced by, wheels and hoofsteps echoing up the corporate skyscrapers.

"However...?" she asked.

"It's silly," he said. The tape pulled closer to him as he thought about it. "Can you... stick around for a story?" He wanted to say it was lonely. That he was broke. That his store was gone. Anything to keep the mare's attention. But he needed bits.

Smooch Me, Smooch Me, Smooch Me was the first Elixir album he owned despite frequenting their concerts. The tape he had had history. The mare had her eyebrows furrowed again, and her wings twitched.

"I—I guess," she said. "I don't have anywhere to go. Do you?"

"No." Mixtape shook his head. "Nowhere." Hollow.

Her eyes went wide. Realization must have hit her. She said, "Oh my Celestia, I didn't realize! I—I, uh, do you want to tell me over lunch?"

It had been nine days. Mixtape wondered how ragged his appearance was, but he wasn't going to turn down food. He left his plastic cup at his place in the abandoned factory. No free refills. He'd knock the price down for her. The crowd of colorful creatures crossed the intersection like a liquid.

"That would be nice," he said.

As they walked, he learned her name was Pearl Love—Pearly for short—and that she was a massive Elixir fan. Smooch Me, Smooch Me, Smooch Me was an album she couldn't find on cassette anywhere. Mixtape mentioned he owned a store. She said she'd never heard of it. They sat down outside a Hayburger Prince after getting their food.

"So, your story?" Pearly asked.

Mixtape placed the tape in its case in the middle of the table. His box was at his side, full of other priceless things.

"This was the first cassette I bought from The Elixir," he said. "It was at a concert outside of town, in one of those big fields. It was a huge event—a hundred thousand ponies and creatures watching."

"Oh wow," she said, perhaps only partially interested. Mixtape didn't fully acknowledge the cue.

"We were there—that is, me, Threadbare, her husband and Ivy Spell—and a big part of the crowd: right up front. Coulda went deaf that close, but all the bodies around you, dancing. The crowdsurfers crushing our heads down... I had to levitate a whole diamond dog over the fence!

"It rained halfway through; it was already hot and humid. Pegasi couldn't get to the rainclouds fast enough. The stage was dry, but the crowd was soaked, but we still danced and yelled. They played an encore." He felt there, in that starless night, air filled with the scent of tobacco and marijuana, of sweaty ponies, of the rain in the air, and his friends! His old friends!

Threadbare said her goodbye at the store. The others never gave him such courtesy.

"Hey," Pearly said. "You sure you wanna sell this?"

"I, uh, I don't have the option," he said. "I just—I just wanted to tell somepony about it. I want it to be cherished." He was uncertain if he meant his experience or the album. "I want—I want you to know why it's special. Special to me, personally—not just as a rare collectible."

"It sounds amazing," Pearly said, more authentic. "I'll hold onto the memory for you. I'll write it down if you want: 'Special to seller because of the concert.'"

It wasn't just the concert, but she wouldn't understand. The concert, that was universal. But the friends, the memory, the ringing ears, the laughs, the community—it was all part of that memory. It went beyond the concert, but he couldn't put it into words.

"Yes," he finally said. "That would be nice." He looked down at his hayburger. "I'm sorry to keep you for such a self-indulgent reason." The table they sat at was red. "It's hard to let go."

"I understand." She did. He could tell, it was in her voice and her rigid posture.

"Thank you," he said, "for listening. And for the food."

"No, thank you. I think I understand why it's sentimental. I never bought anything from anycreature who had seen The Elixir live." She rocked back-and-forth, then, "You've given me more than a cassette. You're giving me memories."

Mixtape nodded. The cassette cover was orange inside its plastic case. The tape was clear. Despite the circumstances, he felt something inside him stir: a warmth with Pearly's words. She gave him the fifty bits and saw herself off. Mixtape finished his food and left the premises shortly after, still feeling warm inside from the interaction.

The fifty bits lasted for over a week. He found another intersection to set up his box and yell that he had things for sale. It was getting colder, and, though he had a roof over his head, the gunfire was getting uncomfortably close to the abandoned factory. He needed to leave it soon and try to get into a homeless shelter—though none had room by the time he arrived.

The first morning frost covered his spot, he vacated the factory. Some buildings had been abandoned and had intact windows to keep out the cold. How he would stay warm was a mystery. He slept in alleyways with his box as he struggled to get into homeless shelters. He stayed one warm night at one, and was able to bathe. When he returned, some of his CDs were stolen from his box. He didn't try to get into a shelter again after that.

After Pearly, he was able to sell just enough things from his box to survive. He tried to save for a winter coat, but he had to dip into his emergency funds so often that he had none. Each sale, though, each one he could tell a story to the customer—they made him feel warm. Not necessarily happy, but warm. It was a new kind of feeling. It wasn't negative. It was pleasant to tell his stories, to invite in a new perspective into his buyers' lives. Most were young, just hoping to start collections, though other creatures and ponies his age had came by and listened.

The thing to let go was a vinyl of The Portals' self-titled album. It was truly priceless to him, the sleeve was covered in his friends' names marked in pencil. The stallion who bought it was understanding—his age, one he could reminisce with—and promised to sell it back when or if Mixtape got back on his hooves. After all, the cold was coming, and the vinyl could be warped and ruined by the weather.

His name was Swift Metal. He gave Mixtape three hundred bits. The warmth pervaded Mixtape's aching body, coming to its peak as Swift Metal turned the corner with The Portals' album in his magic.

Mixtape was frugal with his newfound "wealth," and bought the cheapest coat he could find—one hundred bits. Terrified of theft, he kept away from the homeless shelters and mostly slept in abandoned buildings and cellars he found as he roamed the city looking for new creatures to buy away his stories and favorites. He stayed one particularly cold night in a motel, which ate up most of his bits.

One night, he could find nowhere safe, and his magic was dimming. He slid his box under a dumpster and slept in an alleyway, dirtying his new, yellow coat with the grime along the alleyway between two abandoned factories.