On the porch of a Berlin bourgeois domicile, scrawled on the wall in dark black lettering are the words: “Tode Spritze.” Underneath the writing, a bunch of stuff put out on the curb for pick-up on trash-day. It all seems rather insignificant, neither trash nor fatuous graffiti are something out of the ordinary here, almost so that not seeing them would be strange. But…
“Tode Spritze.”
Some words can be so powerful, they make the hairs on our back stand up straight in much the same way as when we come across one thing out of the ordinary, suddenly everything seems out of place. Fear of the dark. Fear of the Dark, the soft sounds of four horsemen galloping the streets; streets where the nameless die and their belongings get left out by the curb, marked with two invisible words.