The apartment was across the street from a park and the Louvre. The woman that owned it had a son that died of a drug overdose, in it. Sasha was his name, he was my age, and I knew his older sister. My French was shit poor, worse than a Canadians, so I'm glad that no-one paid attention when I slipped off and visited Morrison's grave. The bust looked nothing like him, and there was bird shit all over his nose and right cheek -- Candle wax of some unrecognizable color had globbed down his lips and chin in grotesque shapes. Appropriate, I thought -- Putting my cigarette out in his eye. I then turned away sharply, and headed toward the sound of traffic and the unmistakable reek of rotten fish.