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You're Nobody's Producer

The glow of the old school CRT monitor cast an almost sacred light on our faces, and later the Philips TV, the screen for a digital aurora in the box-room. I remember the specific thrum of the PlayStation, the click of its disc drive, and the rhythmic, almost hypnotic sequence of button presses as I meticulously layered beats and melodies. This was for his GCSE music project, a task he’d presented with a shrug and an almost imperceptible plea for help. He didn't do or say much; he rarely did. He just sat there, knees pulled up to his chest on the floor, watching me, a silent, still observer as I sculpted a rudimentary track from the limited palette of an early 2000s music creation game. His presence was like a barely perceptible hum in the room, a quiet witness to the genesis of something out of nothing. I remember thinking, in that precise moment, that he was involved. Not creatively, not actively, but his quiet watchfulness, his unblinking gaze, felt like a silent endorsement, ...
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Abra Ham and West Ham

Abra Ham and West Ham stood on opposite ends of the dusty road, their gazes locked in a silent battle. They had been enemies since childhood, when a dispute over a stolen apple led to a fierce fistfight. From that day on, their rivalry had only grown, fueled by pride, envy, and a mutual desire to prove themselves superior.
Abra Ham, with his broad shoulders and fiery red hair, was the pride of his family. He had inherited his father's farm and had proven himself as a skilled farmer and a formidable wrestler. West Ham, on the other hand, was the black sheep of his family. Lean and wiry, with a sharp tongue and a quick temper, he had turned his back on the family business and instead embraced a life of adventure and mischief.





As they stood there, neither man willing to back down, a sudden gust of wind blew through the parched landscape, stirring up dust and debris. Both Abra Ham and West Ham shielded their eyes, but when the dust settled, they found themselves face to face, their noses almost touching.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the tension between them crackling like electricity. And then, as if by some unspoken agreement, they burst into laughter. It was a deep, hearty laugh that echoed through the empty streets, erasing years of animosity in an instant.
From that day on, Abra Ham and West Ham were no longer enemies, but rather brothers in arms, united by their shared experiences and the bonds of friendship. And though they still teased and challenged each other, it was now done in good fun, a sign of their enduring acknowledgement of duality.

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