Back in bed with monstrous pain, the more galling as I'd hoped to spend today in Perpignan looking at galleries. Useless.
Good dreams though. Was in the old squatted pub opposite Goldsmiths and in the arm of the back bar was Bob Dylan, looking very unwell and singing very badly - but it was he, the gods had descended. His security people had closed the place off, no one in or out and no mobiles. Two young staff weren't quite sure who he was but were entertained by the vibe. As it were.
Pain killers don't really deal with pain but give the wings to fly over it. Thank heavens.
*just opened my mail - jury rejected me at Magrie (which is a local arts event in a village called Magrie) where previously I'd won Best Artist award! New work obs not up to par. Sigh.
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