Money There was a cod in the fish store following me the way eyes of great paintings follow you through museums. They wrapped him up for me. I got lost on the way home whispering through the paper to my loaded cod. Strangers I passed were convinced he was a loaf of bread. Where are we? He talked quite naturally given his condition. Where are we? You were saying just now. The dark souls of all the fish I've eaten are European, black as wallets. Their street goes on forever, shiny with oil.