In Reykjavik, you look up. Anyone looking at you looks up at you looking up.
In Johannisberg, above the Rhine, it’s OK to look down at your son, and if he’s dead, he can look down, too. If you’re looking at this, you’re looking at them head on. They don’t look at you.
In Weimar, you have a chance, in the world’s first Disneyland, to look up at Shakespeare, who is looking to the side. The skull looks at you, though.
If you’re in Canada, you look down, or into an unfocussed distance.
But graffiti stares at you straight on.
It doesn’t want you to think. By staring at you, it erases you.
Even its absence stares.