The booming sounds of rhythmic beats pound in Westlake Studio A as holly sits at the mixing board. Her long hair pulled back in a ponytail as the mashabiki are on full blast to beat out the hot Californian summer heat wave of 1979. Even in her daisy duke shorts and tank top, she can still feel her skin sticking to the vinyl chair. As the beats go she sits with paper in front of her and writes corresponding lyrics that come to her, sometimes humming, others imba out loud. The time in her studio was her saving grace lately; especially her and Michael haven’t been as close lately, not kwa Michael’s...
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