In a chair.
My things are packed. I only spent all of last night gathering together my record player, turntable, and music mixer—placing them all in a carry-on container.
I stare at it from across the shadows of the foyer. Next to it is another piece of luggage: a random assortment of bare essentials and necessities.
There will never be a time so dismal that I can't laugh inwardly at the absurdity of some words...
I stroke the back of my neck with my hoof. I gaze towards the right side of the foyer.
Octavia's half looms in the darkest shadows. An empty couch. Countless, velvety pillows. A tea table with chairs. A kitchen full of spices and wine bottles.
I look to the left.
A deep impression is left in the carpet from where I've always placed my turntable. There are two worn circles in the rug where my rear hooves would stand. I think of all the times I've stood in the exact same position, tweaking the exact same tools, achieving the exact same results.
How many "masterpieces" were crafted in this place?
How many instrumentals... dance tracks... tunes that ponies across Equestria have kissed, married, and made love to...?
Maybe all bright things start in the presence of darkness, fueled by random sparks. All of them accidents. It's the harmony that masks over the mistakes.
Biting my lip, I crane my neck and look towards the left of the front door.
Row after row of music albums lie in dust. So many potential samples—most of them rejected. Ignored.
Will I too—someday—be nothing but a memory on a shelf? Engraved on vinyl, encased in paper, and shrouded by apathy?
Tavi, you had it wrong...
Being a household name is one thing...
...but hearing you say it was something else. Something sweeter than music. Something that can't be put on a shelf.
I raise my shades and rub my clenched eyelids.
Magenta sighs... resounding... rolling back and forth like the tide.
Wherever your name ends up, Tavi...
...I hope it's chiseled in stone...
...you deserve no less.
And with that thought burnt like a candle, I do believe I am ready.
I stand up. My joints are stiff. I've grown three decades older in the span of a holocaustal week.
The greatest sin now would be in hesitating.
So I don't.
I trot briskly across the foyer, reaching my luggage. With a pulse of magic, I levitate the two heavy containers beside me. As I place my hoof on the doorknob, I take one last breath of this dusty domain. It's still so lavishly furnished... so decorated... so full.
I suppose life wouldn't be life if we didn't leave things unfinished.
My mind shudders—bowing from the weight of many colorful memories. I shrug the sensation off before it can bog me down, and I open the door.
Immediately, something shifts and falls onto my fetlocks.
I blink, taken back. Lighting my horn, I tilt my head down and illuminate the object.
It's a cardboard container. Square shaped. Very wide and yet very slim. It's addressed to my residence.
I must have missed the postal delivery last afternoon. I... have been ignoring the daylight for the past three days... among other things.
I lift the package up with my telekinesis. Floating three things at once puts some strain on my mind, and I feel a headache forming.
What is this, anyways?
A picture frame?
DJ-P0N3 posters for me to sign?
Octavia's long overdue order of her favorite 'Wine and Cheese' calendar?
I sigh... grumbling internally.
I'm too lazy to find a place to toss it, so I shove the package into my luggage... then shuffle out of the apartment and into the darkness of early-early morning.
Everything is fresh. Laced with dew. It's sickeningly sweet.
I can't stay for much longer.
So I close the front door behind me, lock it, and shuffle towards the train depot.
It's before sunrise. There's literally nopony out in the streets.
I couldn't have asked for a better morning.
The sleepy green hum of Ponyville dwindles behind me, until it too is nothing more than a memory. I board a westbound train, sit in a lone coach, and place it all on a dark shelf somewhere...
And then sleep comes to claim me.