It was night when I first heard the voice. I couldn’t sleep and was just lying there in bed when the woman spoke to me, like an angel in the night. My first inclination was to look over at my wife and move my ear closer to see if I could hear her mutter again. But the voice resounded and her lips didn’t move.
“Open his eyes.” It said
A part of me was afraid. “What?” I asked to the darkness.
“Set him free…”
“What? That’s not a help!”
My wife stirred in her sleep and rolled over, eyes squinting in the meager light to study my face. “What are you talking about? You talking to me?”
“No, I was—“I stopped short. Would she—could she possibly understand?
No time to ponder it. All at once there was the drumming; rhythmic, otherworldly drumming. Four beats per measure, and then bass, strings, and keyboard joined in. I knew the tune well. How could I not? It was derived from the Native American tribal dance of my ancestors. Like a puppet, I slipped from under the sheets to investigate the noise. I can’t even remember the feeling of the cold hardwood under my feet. Maybe that’s because they weren’t touching the floor as I drifted like a wraith, drawn by the beat.
As I approached the living room of my little apartment the music became louder, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest along with the drums. The energy of the moment took over. I started bobbing my head and my right foot dominated the other. An astral red glow radiated from the living room and shadows danced against the walls; leaping and throwing their hands in the air. But there was no sound. No footfalls on the carpet as the vaporous beings landed.
Not walking now, but dancing, I trotted to the doorway. There I gazed upon an awesome sight. Indians, just like myself, danced in traditional garb around a strange, bright red light. The light was almost blinding, and I couldn’t discern the source of it, but in my heart I felt that it was nothing of this world.
As I stood rooted to the floor I came to yet another startling revelation. Among the dancing Navaho, another figure shook, and leapt and danced. This strange man wore a more modern wardrobe. His hair was long, dark, and wavy and he was wearing a Native American-style vest over a black, long-sleeved button-up. Tight leather draped down his legs to a pair of brown loafers.
The music still pounding in my ears, conquering my every thought, I joined the procession, dancing as well as I could remember from my younger days. I’d long since given up being a religious man, but even in a dream I had to admit there was something…spiritual…about the experience. I became lost in a trance and soon light and time held no meaning. Before I even understood what was happening, the music began to die away, and with it, my daze. The piercing light dimmed to nothing and the Indian ancestors walked away, fading into the walls, but still he remained.
Normal darkness returned to the room and I clicked the living room light on. Still standing there, as real as anything else in the room, was Jim Morrison. The Lizard King appeared as confused as I was; eyes scanning every inch of his new surroundings with listless eyes. They finally focused on me, staring blankly with an unintelligent look on my face.
He sighed, plopped himself down on my couch, and said “This isn’t one of my usual fantasies.”
“Fantasies?” I asked.
“Yeah. This is still heaven, isn’t it?”
I shook my head numbly. “No, this is Albuquerque.”
Morrison raised his eyebrows as if he didn’t believe me. “Ah, of course it is.”
“Am I supposed to open your eyes?” I asked.
Jim didn’t seem to understand. “What?”
I pointed up at my bedroom. “The voice I heard told me to ‘open his eyes’ and then you showed up.”
He was silent for a time, considering. “Well it couldn’t have been talking about me. My eyes don’t need any opening.”
“You’ve gotta be here for a reason!”
“Look, I’d love to help, but I don’t know what it’s talking about!”
I couldn’t let him shrug me off. “You’re a ghost; maybe you have some unfinished business? You always wanted to be accepted as a poet.”
Morrison shot me an absurd look. “Do you…know me? How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-four,” I answered, “but I know a lot about you.”
“Oh, wow.” Morrison stood and jammed his hands into his pockets. “Then…what do we do?”
“Well uh…” I had to think, “We could get you signed up as a guest speaker at the university. Lorraine says they’re always looking for famous poets to read for the kids.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m sure they’d love to hear all about how you have a dude who’s been dead for forty years.”
“They’ll have to believe it!” I shouted. After a moment I scoffed and paced around the room, slowly. “Wow, I’m sick of doubt. I’m sick of people staring at me with dour faces from the T.V. tower.”
Morrison seemed to find glee in the fact that I could recite his poetry from memory. He closed his eyes and a large grin grew on his face. “Alright, punk. Let’s do this.”
Morrison didn’t want to sleep, despite the hour. He said he’d slept enough. I gave him paper and went back up to bed, but I had to be honest with myself; I couldn’t sleep either. After only a short while I slunk back downstairs and rejoined him. We spoke mostly about what he was writing. It all sounded fantastic to me. In the morning I would take Jim with me and try to get acceptance into the university…

My wife, Lorraine, awoke with her alarm. One large yawn and stretch and she was ready for work. Much better than I was doing, slumped over the kitchen table with my head in my arms. Jim was still writing fervently. Lorraine floated down the stairs and crossed the kitchen rather deliriously to the fridge, where she pulled a jug of coffee mate out and moseyed back over to the coffee pot. She got all the way to pouring coffee into a cup before noticing Jim Morrison’s presence in the room.
She flinched and yelped at the realization but maintained control of the cup. Jim jumped at her surprise.
“Uh h—hello.” Lorraine tried to maintain her composure.
“Sup.” Morrison replied.
“Wh—who are you?”
“Oh uh, sorry.” Jim set his pen down and stood. He wiped his hands on his pants and then offered one for a handshake. “I’m Jim.”
Lorraine shook it, giggling nervously. “Alright.” She turned to me and started shaking me awake.
I awoke with a small snort and raised my head from the table. “Uh, yeah?”
Eyes darting nervously from me to Jim, she asked, “Um, honey, who’s this?”
I took a second to assess the situation before responding. “You can see him?”
“Well he’s not exactly a ghost!”
I stood from the chair, shaking my head. “Well, let’s not jump to conclusions. Jim, this is my wife, Lorraine. Lorraine, this is Jim Morrison.”
More nervous giggles. “Right. I have to go to work.”
As she left, Morrison looked at me and shrugged. I never should have expected her to understand.
“How old is your wife, man?” Jim asked.
I answered immediately. “She’s thirty-one.”
Jim laughed in mirth. “Ha ha, my man!” He held his hand in the air for a high-five.
I ignored it and jumped to the task of convincing my wife to let a dead man read poetry at her school. “Hey uh, Lorraine.” I chased her across the kitchen. “Do you think you could get Jim in to read for your class?”
She just couldn’t get over the absurdity of the situation, giggling her nervous little giggles. “Okay, right. I’ll just tell my boss a dead rock-star wants to make an appearance.”
“Come on, Lorraine. Can’t you just roll with this, for me?”
“You have to go to work too, you know.”
“I can’t go to work today! This is important!”
She held her hands up in surrender. “Alright. I’ll give it a shot. But he won’t believe me.”
“We can bring him along. He’ll have to believe it!”
Taking a page from my book, she responded, “Let’s not jump to conclusions. I can see him standing there stealing our cookies and I don’t believe it.”
Jim immediately tore his hand out of the cookie jar and jammed it back in his pocket.
I glanced at him briefly and went back to the conversation. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll get dressed and then me and Jim will be ready to go anytime.” Without waiting, I bolted up the stairs and threw something respectable on as quickly as possible. Lorraine joined me later to change into her work clothes.
“Left him alone with the cookie jar?” I quipped.
“Screw the cookies,” she said. “Do you really believe that guy is Jim Morrison?”
I sighed. “Lorraine, I practically lived and breathed this guy the whole time I was a teenager. I know what Jim Morrison looks and acts like.”
Lorraine pulled a blue blouse out of the wardrobe. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll roll with this, like you say, but I still have no faith in this working.”
A short time later we were in our SUV. Lorraine was driving and I was in the passenger seat. Jim was pouting in the backseat after Lorraine made him put his seatbelt on.
No matter what Lorraine thought, I had faith in this plan. From what I remember about her telling me about the dean at her school, he’s a “miserable old fart.” Hopefully a teenager in the sixties kind of old.
We walked up to the dean’s door and Lorraine sighed. “Here goes.” She raised her fist and tapped on the fogged window.
“Come in.” the dean grumbled.
Lorraine opened the door and the three of us filed in.
“Mr. Walker, I have a poet that would like to read at one of our night sessions in the theatre.”
Walker jumped to his feet and circled his desk, offering his hand to me. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“It’s not him.” Lorraine pointed out.
Finally Jim squeezed his way into the room. His face was downturned as he dusted himself off and his hair had fallen over his eyes. When he finished dusting off his imaginary accumulation he flicked his hair back and smiled. “Hey man! I’m Jim Morrison.”
The best possible reaction I could have asked for. His mouth hung open.
Jim proceeded to shake his hand. “Looks like you recognize me. Good. This would have been really difficult otherwise.” Jim shook his head and sat down in one of the chairs across from the dean’s.
The dean was still speechless. He turned to Lorraine for answers. “Wha…wha--?“
Lorraine just shrugged.
“Divine intervention, dean.” I put in.
The dean scoffed, shaking his head. He walked back over to his desk and sat down, staring hard at Jim. “No. No way. I don’t believe it.”
I jumped right in, plopping into the other chair. “Why not? You don’t believe you own eyes?”
“No!” the dean squealed. “Jim Morrison is dead. It’s impossible.”
Jim chimed in. “You know what, man? This kind of confuses me myself, but I’ve been thinking about it. This guy knows a lot about me. He hears this voice from beyond telling him to help me out, and then something rips me out of heaven and plops me down here, in Albuquerque, New Mexico of all places. Maybe they finally got tired of me and kicked me out, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but then he wants me to read my poetry in front of a crowd like I always wanted and it just so happens that his damn wife is the poetry teacher at your university. This is becoming a real trip.”
Everyone was silent. It seemed that neither Lorraine nor I had thought of that.
I shook my head and resumed pleading. “Even if he’s not Jim Morrison, he’s a poet and he wants to read what he’s got. Isn’t that enough?”
“Did all of that really happen?” the dean asked.
“Yeah.” I breathed.
“Well, if you wanted to market him as just another poet, why bring him to me?”
Lorraine interjected. “I think it’s important that people know who it is that they’re listening to.”
I couldn’t help but smile at her. Maybe Jim’s observations had turned her around.
The dean thought about the proposal for a moment. “Alright.”
Everyone shouted “Yes!” in unison. Jim reached across the desk and shook the dean’s hand fervently. “Thanks a lot, man! This is huge.”
The dean grinned happily. “Hey, if poetry aims to achieve anything, it's to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel. I’d hate to be in the way of that.”
Jim blinked uncertainly a few times. “Hey man, that’s beautiful. Did you just come up with that?”
The dean shook his head. “No. There was a famous king who lived a while back. He said it.”
I smiled from ear to ear.
We left the university in Lorraine’s car. I would have to pick her up later. The poetry reading was tomorrow night, so Jim still had plenty of time to work on his material. I called in sick and spent the whole day with the lizard king.

After showing Jim around the twenty-first century (he found the T.V. remote control particularly fascinating) we were sitting in my living room, just chillin’.
“You know what Jim,” I said, “You’re totally not what I expected. I’d heard a lot of things and you’re not like that.”
Jim smiled. “Well, in your historians’ defense, I haven’t had a drink all d…Hell; I haven’t had a drink in 39 years.” Jim stood and started moseying around the room. “Man. If I hadn’t died I’d be an old man now. Then how would people remember me?”
I nodded quietly, then slapped my hand to my head and shouted, “Oh, crap!”
“What?”
“I forgot to pick Lorraine up from the school!” I bolted from the couch and made for the front door. Just then, it swung open.
“Matthew William Yahzee!” Lorraine screamed.
“Lorraine! I am so sorry. I forgot.”
“You know what Matt? Shut up! I am not surprised, not even a little bit.”
Jim excused himself and shuffled up the stairs. “I’m out.”
Lorraine watched with fiery eyes as he left.
I resumed pleading for my life. “Lorraine, I am so sorry. I just got distracted with Jim.”
“That’s why I’m not surprised! I knew you would forget and I knew that’s the exact reason you would give me!” Lorraine quieted and looked up the stairs. Then she looked back at me, and in a venomous voice added, “You remember what you said you’d do if you ever met him, right? About Pamela Courson?”
“Oh, shut up!” I shouted. “You just want me to punch him in the nose!”
“Goddamn right I do!” Lorraine pushed her way past me, plopped down on the couch and started taking off her heels.
I huffed out a mass of air and muttered, “Bitch,” under my breath. With that I left to go upstairs by Jim.
He was sitting on our bed with my iPod in his ears when I walked in. When he saw me he pulled the buds out and stood up, walking over.
“How did it go?” he asked.
Wham! I punched him square in the nose! He fell down against the floor, holding it. “Agggh! Ah man; what the hell was that for?”
I said simply, “Pamela Courson.”
Jim wasn’t mad, in fact, he seemed to understand. “Oh.”
I sighed once more and turned to leave; suddenly Jim said. “You’ve got a lot of time to think in heaven, you know.”
I stopped and turned around. “Huh?”
He looked at me with a serious, piercing gaze. “I tried to talk to her…about the way I treated her. I tried to explain things.”
“Was she mad?” I asked.
Jim scoffed. “No. She was loving, and submissive, and gracious. In heaven they fabricate whatever fantasy you want, but I didn’t want a fantasy; I wanted my Pam. I wanted to talk to her.”
“Sounds awful, being locked in a room with some shell who’s just there to tell you what you want to hear.”
Jim nodded, sniffling on blood.
“Maybe that’s how I’m really supposed to help you,” I put in.
Jim scoffed. “How could you possibly help me with that?”
“Well, down here we still go to their graves to say those kinds of things.”
Jim wiped his nose with his hand. “Forget it. It wasn’t that bad. We’ll just do this poetry thing and hope I get my ticket back upstairs.”
Jim stood and staggered out of the room. The conversation made me feel bad about the fight with Lorraine, so I walked back downstairs with him. It was too late for me, she was in the shower. I could wait; but could Jim? I had to wonder.
The rest of the day I spent my time on the computer. I advertised the ridiculous showcasing of Jim Morrison at the school. A lot of bloggers, fans, and old people tweeted, and instant messaged, and facebooked that I was crook. All I had to do was explain that it was free, so if they wanted to believe they could come see for themselves for no charge. Hours passed and I finally felt like I could relax, sipping on my coffee in an office chair. Jim was finally sleeping. I was beginning to think he didn’t need to anymore. I’d neglected Lorraine again getting caught up in the advertising.

The next day I actually went to work, I couldn’t spend all of my time with Jim, no matter how short a time that may be. He was just another person, after all. I didn’t know what he did all day, until that night.
I went home to pick him up and take him to the university after work, but he wasn’t there. Lorraine had long since gotten off work and was reading a book on the couch.
“Where’s Jim?” I asked.
She shrugged half-heartedly. “I don’t know. He must have just left and never came back.”
I ran my fingers through my hair in exasperation. “Ah god! Did you say something to him?”
She looked extremely insulted. “No! I need him at the school too, you know! I already signed him up and everything.”
I groaned and stomped to the front door. “He needs to be there by eight!” With that I slammed the door and went looking for him.
For the next two and a half hours I searched, looking in all of the places I thought he might go; bars, parks, clubs, strip joints…even the top of tall buildings and in the Mojave Desert. I couldn’t find him anywhere. Finally eight o’ clock rolled around and I drove back into town to the university.
The theatre was filled with people; handmade posters were up all over the school advertising Jim Morrison. Apparently the dean had done a little more than I thought. I’d been to these poetry things before, usually there were only about twenty people but that night it was packed. They’d run out of seats and people were standing along the walls and in between the rows. A whole column seemed dedicated to flower children.
I walked around backstage and immediately spotted Lorraine. She was standing with her arms folded and tapping her foot impatiently. When she saw me approaching she said, “Did you find him?”
I threw my hands in the air, furious. “He’s not here? Where the hell is he?”
Another half hour passed. He was supposed to go on a long time ago. Lorraine was trying to explain to the dean while some other poor poet tried to read to the insane crowd. Suddenly a bunch of wasted college kids came bursting in the back door. I took one look at them and whimpered, “Oh no.”
Staggering around at the middle of the crowd, more drunk than any of the other kids, was Jim Morrison. I walked over to him as the kids went to find seats. I hoped they didn’t start a fight when they found there were none.
“You showed up late to the show because you were drinking at a frat party?”
“Hey, man,” he slurred. “we put the posters up, didn’t we? We got done with that, and then they invited me for some drinks. Sue me.”
I pointed out at the stage. “They’re gonna start eating each other out there!” Right then I lost it and grabbed him by his shirt collar, shoving him against a girder. “You fuck up! You’re doing it again! You haven’t changed a bit, not in forty goddamned years! Miami, New Haven, St. Louis, Chicago! I’ve done everything I could to set you free but I am done! Done, do you hear me?”
Jim put an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry, man. Listen.”
The crowd had started chanting “We want Jim Morrison!” and throwing things on the stage.
“They didn’t come here to see Jim Morrison. They want to see The Lizard King; they want to take a piece of him. They came here to watch me die…again.”
With that Jim left me and staggered out onto the stage. The crowd noticed him immediately and the cheering that ensued was deafening. Jim raised his arms in recognition and then pushed the other poet off the stool. The kid spit out his thanks and ran to the wings. Jim tried to sit on the stool but it took a few tries. I had to cover my eyes, I couldn’t watch.
Jim adjusted the microphone and said, “Alright everyone, quiet down, that’s enough.”
The crowd continued to shout.
“Alright, okay. Come on, calm down…Shut up!”
The crowd finally quieted.
“Damn kids.” Jim cleared his throat. “Alright. I call this Strawberry Heaven.”


From the very tip of her hair she is perfect
A beacon of light in the well of my soul
I know I can’t tear my eyes away
From her flawless skin and her soft hips at play
Won’t you stay here with me?
You know that I love you, and I know you want me
Strawberry Heaven atop emerald eyes
When she smiles I quiver, and I sulk when she cries
Yeah she’s a sweetheart, the apple of my eye
I savor the breeze ev’ry time she walks by
Her hair is the color of a beautiful rose
It follows the wind wherever it blows
So near, so dear
I want to speak my heart but I’m livin’ in fear
Save me, from the darkness inside
Your smile is a hunter, and you know I can’t hide
Her face is my pain and my pleasure each day
I love her free spirit and I’ll have it both ways
She’s right there, everyday
But I---


Jim stopped there, suddenly looking very unsure. His eyes looked through the crowd, moving uncertainly, looking for answers.
“I really can’t let go, can I?” Jim breathed. He dropped his papers on the floor and stood. He said, “I have to go,” and simply walked off the stage. The crowd went into an uproar. Lorraine rushed out to the microphone and begged them to stay seated.
Jim walked over to me and ripped my car keys off of the clip on my belt.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” I shouted.
Lorraine turned and watched us. Jim didn’t stop walking and I was forced to chase after him.
“I’m going to Santa Ana.”
I gasped. “You’re going to see her, aren’t you?”
We went through the back door and walked to the car. Jim hopped into the front seat. I was hesitant. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”
Jim didn’t wait. He started the car and I jumped in as fast as I could, I couldn’t let him go by himself. He peeled out of the parking lot and sped away. Lorraine came running out of the back doors after us just as it all happened and was left behind. Lucky for her she didn’t want to ride with me and took a separate car to the school. As quickly as she could, she started the big, black SUV and chased after us.
“Santa Ana is twelve hours from here, Jim.” I said. “Do you plan on driving all night?”
It looked to me like Jim’s eyes were starting to water. “I don’t care. I have to go. You never told me about it wanting you to set me free. I have to talk to her; the real her.”
I said, “Oh,” and sat back in my chair, clicking the seatbelt into place.
For hours we sat without another word. The radio was tuned to the local classic rock station. We heard at least five Doors songs. While passing through Arizona, Jims eyes started to flicker. I noticed it and asked, “You alright, Jim?”
Without hesitation, he answered, “I’m fine.”
I let it go. But in the next minute his eyes closed entirely and his head slumped to the side, taking the whole car with it. I grabbed the steering wheel as fast as I could and slammed my foot on the brake, guiding the car to the side of the road.
I sighed and unbuckled. Jim wasn’t buckled at all so I circled around to the other side of the car and simply rolled him into the passenger seat, buckling him there. I hopped into the driver’s seat, buckled, and started driving.
“Don’t worry, Jim” I said, “I’ll get us there.”

When Jim awoke the next morning, the car was stopped. It was a breezy day and the whole sky was gloomily overcast. He quickly rubbed his eyes and looked around. I wasn’t in the car. When he sat up in the seat he saw me sitting on the hood. Drearily, he opened the door. When he tried to get out the seat belt wouldn’t let him. After muttering an expletive, he tore it off and hopped out.
I was smiling. “You’re up!”
Jim shielded his eyes from the light. “Where are we?”
“Fairhaven Memorial Park.” I answered, then I pointed to something in the distance.
Squinting, Jim spotted a small interment embossed with the words “Pamela Susan…Morrison” accompanied by two pictures of Pam and Jim together. Like a slave, Jim drifted to the grave, falling to his knees in front of it, a martyred angel. The wind made it impossible to hear what he was saying; only Pam was meant to hear it. Suddenly I heard a gearbox downshifting behind me and I turned to see who was approaching. Lorraine was pulling up in the SUV. She hopped out and jogged over to me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
She stopped and looked at me like I was ridiculous. “My husband hops into a car with some drunk and I’m just expected to sit and hope he comes back?”
“How did you find us?”
“I heard you guys say you were going to Santa Ana and used my GPS. Didn’t you guys stop to sleep at all?”
I didn’t have a response for that. I just turned away and watched Jim.
“Um, hey.” Jim muttered to the grave. “It’s been a while since we’ve talked, huh? I’ve wanted, so bad, to talk to you. Maybe that’s what got me down here, sheer force of will. Well, anyway; I’m here because—“ Jim scoffed and put his hands on his hips. “I bet you’re wondering why I am here, huh? Talking to a pile of ashes.” He laughed nervously. “What I have to say is really important. For the last forty years, I’ve been alone, thinking about how I lived my life. Now I know my biggest mistake was the way I treated you. I deserve to burn in hell for cheating on you, and abusing you the way I did. Ugh, I wish I had a face to talk to. Can you hear me? I just wanted to say that…I’m sorry. You’ve heard me say I love you a thousand times, but you’ve never heard me say I’m sorry. I truly am.” Jim started whimpering, tears streaming down his face. He could hardly get the words out. “I just miss you so fucking much. Umm, If I had one wish, it would be to see your face just one more time so I could look into your eyes and tell you how I feel, but it may not be my choice anymore. I—I just don’t want to go back into that pit again.”
By then Jim was crying really hard, and couldn’t even speak anymore. Without warning, a light hand came to rest on his shoulder. He sniffled and looked to see who it was. Standing behind him in a bright, white robe, was Pam. Jim wiped his eyes and stood to face her.
I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing.
“Pam I—I uh…“ Finally Jim was face to face with her, and he was too choked up to find the words.
Pam reached up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling his head into the nape of her neck, where he continued to cry profusely. “Shh,” she cooed. “It’s all right Jim. It’s over now.”
Jim pulled away and looked at her face. His eyes were rimmed with red and he was snotting up.
Pam smiled. “Look at you, still the same little boy I knew all those years ago. My silly little Lizard King. You haven’t changed a bit.”
Jim smiled, “Yeah, I’m still the same, but look at you; you got old.”
Pamela laughed, “Fuck you!”
The two lovers laughed together, reunited at last.
“Let’s go home,” Pam said.
A blinding white light erupted from out of nowhere over the graves. Jim looked at it and asked. “Is that heaven?”
“Yes.” Pam smiled. “Let’s go, together this time.” Pam took Jim’s hand and together they strode toward the light.
Just before entering Jim stopped and looked at me, “Thanks Matt, you really saved me.”
I had no words, I just smiled and waved sheepishly. Jim smiled back and entered the light, disappearing into time. Shortly after, the light faded.
Lorraine and I were left standing in the cemetery. I turned to her and said, “Lorraine I-“
She cut me off. “I know Matt. I’m sorry too.”
She wrapped her arms around me and I her. I knew there was a lesson to be learned from this as I stared at the pictures of Jim and Pam together on Pam’s grave.
“Makes me wonder.” I said.
“What?” Lorraine asked.
“If Jim was ever really in heaven. Maybe having to be alone and forced to spend time with a false Pam was a torture only hell could devise. His reality was torture enough.”
Lorraine gazed at the grave as well. “Could any hell be more horrifying than now, and real?”
I smiled at her inspired Jim Morrison reference and she smiled back; then she took my hand in hers and said, “Come on, we have to go home too.”
Together we walked hand in hand, back to the cars.

The End

Impressum

Texte: This book is in no way affiliated, endorsed, or sponsored by the surviving Doors members, Elektra Records, or any surviving member of the Courson Family. All rights reserved.
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 16.07.2011

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Widmung:
To James Douglas Morrison; Poet.