Cryptic The scent of a foreign newspaper in the morning: New ink on old investments and trades. While down in Berlin, the autobus returns to the depot. The driver wraps himself in a scene of noise and oil. The last of the rain is falling in spores, another plague. The bailiff, off duty, knows that trees take time. No ordinary articles in the universe's inventory. Get rid of more, of it all, he says. This is a career, Not a hobby. Have a snack, an apple, it's a hard fruit. No

Zero and the Anti-Dollar Zero sat still with the anti-dollar in his scarred palms. The war had begun and the fear was flying through the air like blood. Zero felt the poison stir in his lungs. The television was growing fat with virulent statistics, hospitals and fire. He stared through the screen and imagined a V-sign projected on the far wall. The anti-dollar sweated in his hands: it made his veins thicken with potential. Zero painted on a mask with chalk; stocked up on fis