Once in awhile Frank wondered if he himself might be an illusion but when he looked in the mirror – there he was. He played the harmonica, played it backwards, low notes on the right like an inverted piano. He had everything by Little Walter, even a CM195 microphone. Sometimes he could feel the slinky trills of distortion. Frank believed the brain was something that took care of things but never directly saw it as the thing that created him. The brain was something in the background, unaware of his greatness. For his birthday he went to a fortune teller who told him flat out he is the same as everybody else. They all think their great too she said. This shook him up. He started imagining everyone else on the bus, on the sidewalk, in the mall –thought they were important, more important than anyone else. He couldn’t get the idea out of his head because it made sense, more sense than ending jazz using 2-5-1. He experimented in next songs, writing without “I” or points of view that were not his if that was even possible considering he still was the writer?