In my dream as I climb the upended deck I think about what a clever film maker Michael Bay is, taking time in the midst of this tense boat sequence to include a shot of a cute pangolin rolling in the street. Later we wait for the bombs to pull the oxygen from the air around us.

In my dream the consolidation of the art world continues: walking through a blocks-long mega gallery, I meet five different women friends who have been hired there in various capacities. Each is tidy and glad of a job, part of a swarm of activity. The show features hundreds of antique traveling trunks.

In my dream two young men push their way into the back room of the shop where I work, ostensibly for water. Their manner touches on violence and I resent having to give them no cause to erupt.

In my dream I’ll fly back to London from Istanbul tomorrow, so I do some quick shopping in the warehouses: trying to find a knee length gingham shirt that fits leads me to a rack of over printed jeans in searing colors. I feel smug.