(Another Doors-inspired piece from my college years)
I wandered through Père-Lachaise, looking for Morrison’s grave. I could tell I was getting closer, because I kept seeing the graffiti:
COME BACK JIM WE LOVE YOU
JIM WAS A JUNKIE
I wandered among the twisting French graves, hunted among them for he who was closest to me, chronologically if not also spiritually.
My thoughts echoed off the markers. I turned a corner, thinking the bust-adorned headstone might be there. I was wrong.
On a mausoleum wall stalked the white tiger. It was drawn in chalk with red stripes, livelier than any oil painting. It gazed at me hungrily, like a mad beggar, and I could not take my eyes away. The perspective was such it somehow looked distant rather than small. Part of me expected it to slowly grow larger, to come nearer. My eyes fell to what was below it.
There lay the artist, dead. A needle dangled from his left upper arm. His crazy smiling death mask bore an expression that screamed:
Happy are the dead. You will soon join me.
I stumbled my way out of the cemetery, desperately trying to escape from what I had seen.