HHD #4.

After an evening on the black sofa, wrapped in a single duvet, watching the brilliant Mythbusters and testing acrylic paint, I resumed my work on with Stem Courts. In the bath with dictaphone recording, Stem addressed the audience, joking and weaving observational anecdotes that will be the runway for his ['eyes closed please, I know that's difficult in this climate of terror' - shit] Self-Help Poetry.

Walking In Chorlton, that unrealised Cockney jubilee featuring rent-a-rapper Sprueman, was also slightly developed - I have found that bedsprings can sound enough like a bass drum from a marching band. This will feature in the profile of my musician character, who is at present nameless.

The third ghost to leak from my tattered psyche was a former conceptualist of the 60's school who has become an invisible because, he claims, 'it is the only way to transcend the primitive arts, to free oneself from one's self and to leave those dismal politics where they belong - in places that think they're London', or thereabouts. His voice is deep and must have cost his parent/s or guardian/s a lot of money in the fifties. He is interviewed off camera, with the camera pointing at his infamous armchair. He cites Banksy and The Residents as his 'methaphysical heirs'.

And, despite having a growing pile of intelligent literature, I did nothing that will help essay. Directly...