For 50,000 Lunatic Fans (To be read after City Agents 001: Jack on the Corner)

★i don't know Jack. i've only heard the legends. But i think i met a few of his cousins, a few of his friends.

★He sat there, on the bricks, playing a steel guitar. He'd known Jack, not the best of friends, but they understood each other, they'd shared the stage. We stopped to listen. Folk, blues, rock as seen through a kaleidoscope of experiences the kind Bukowski wrote about, the kind Frost encouraged others to strive for. "I was back out in the East," he started, the last chord of his just finished song still resonating from his guitar. "Laying train tracks, now that's some hard work..." He played on, the occasional Samaritan tossing change into his guitars case. His voice was rough, but beautiful. He sang the blues not out of desire, but necessity. He told us about Bob Dylan. "You see, back in Bob's day people wanted a guitarist, they needed a guitarist," he cleared his throat, "you could play guitar for a living! Nowadays, it's like playing for a cup of coffee, if you're lucky..."

★Walking around drunk. Destination either forgotten or never really known. And there he is, sitting comfortably on a park bench, playing the accordion. He'd probably never even heard of Jack, but he'd been searching for him. i toss a bill in his hat and keep walking. He offers a smile as his melodies carry me away like the gentle flow of the Seine.

★Two kids, teenagers, sitting outside the station. Playing guitars, singing, playing harmonica. They play pop ballads for their girlfriend-hopefuls. i grab my video camera and approach them. i ask them to play something on camera, they ask me what, i ask them to play something original. They look at each other in confusion and surprise. After a pause of hesitation, they start playing an ultra-popular j-pop ballad (the third time i'd heard it played in this location). i sit and listen and watch and record. When they finish i give them ￥500, and pray for their paths to cross Jack's.

★We approach a Picasso museum in Barcelona, the streets lined with historic beauty. Just another block, or so. A melody appears in the distance. He sits there with his guitar, on the stoop of a deserted building, creating worlds of infinite beauty with every note.　Jack lays his head in the grass and closes his eyes, the sun lightly shinning through his eyelids, the Spaniard's melody carrying him off to sleep.