They’re like neon lights that have already given up the fight against time, you know? The plastic twists, the colors bleed into each other, and that rusted edge feels like a whispered promise that the songs inside are forever out of reach. It’s the tang of that worn‑out cover—crackles, dents, the faint smell of old glue—that pulls you back to the moment you slipped it onto a dusty shelf. The music itself is a distant echo; the visual decay is the living story that keeps the mixtape alive in the first place.