Before the class was let out for the summer, the old tuba player had one last piece of advice, “Maybe your name is Harold or maybe it’s Betsy, either way you can bet the cells in your liver don’t think of themselves as Harold or Betsy. That’s the job of thinking. Calls itself by your name as if that is what you are. In fact that’s just thoughts being thoughts. Cells in the liver operate by doing their job but mind’s job is to call you Harold or Betsy and perpetuate the idea that you are Harold or Betsy; ventriloquy 101. Are you the composer or do you just imagine that? You’re just choosing between green or blue or pink, and furthermore you’re just mixing the colours. The more you tell yourself you composed it the more you commit to believing you are something you are not or at the very least you can’t prove it. People think they created all these things in life, the city, the houses, the instruments, the clothes yada yada but it was all made from things that were already existing, here on Earth. People merely mixed things up, heated, cooled, dyed, wove, fused – using things that already exist. Altering something that preexisted is not creating something new. Your own life was created by something, not you. You float through this dream and invest in deeper sleep or try to acquire wakefulness. Believing you are a composer named Harold or Betsy, that’s just snore practise.