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Limitless And Free, David Nicholas

Boise State University Theses and Dissertations

Every mission through time and space to save Jim Morrison's life failed. He always died, no matter what. Always at four-ten AM, on Saturday, July the third, nineteen-seventy-one. Each of Jim's many deaths—in Paris or L.A.; bearded or shaved; drunk or sober—reminded me of my father, at home in the year two-thousand-and-six, in a hospital bed at St. Luke's, who, like Jim in nineteen-seventy-one, had death written all over him.