Burgle set his quill aside, replacing it with the glass of red he always had to hand when composing. A small cough alerted him that his roommate, a nobody named Brahms, was there.
“My dear Brahms, I’ve just penned a new masterpiece.”
Brahms gave him a look. “Really? It seems as though your penchant for mediocrity is going to be thrust upon an unsuspecting populace yet again.”
“Ah Brahms, your pedantic droning chant reveals your jealousy.”
“Burgle, my farts are more interesting than the drivel you try to pass off as music.”
“I’ll be famous while you’ll be forgotten!”
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