The graves were closer together than he was expecting. It was sort of like a tenement of graves; they were not exactly stacked on top of each other but were squeezed in, side by side. And the place was plotted on a grid, laid out with avenues like a little dead metropolis. The walls seemed to be keeping everything from bursting onto the streets outside.

There were no more free maps at the kiosk by the entry gate. There was a large mapboard posted but Lem couldn’t make sense of it. That meant he would just have to wander. It actually was a cool day, it had rained sometime earlier or maybe the night before. But he couldn’t tell from the sun what time it was. It was like a pale light coming down from all parts of the sky equally. It hit the trees without making shadows.

The cemetery seemed to have more hills than anywhere else in the city. The cobblestones and pavement were also extremely uneven. So he walked slower than usual. He didn’t know where he was going. He stopped in front of a tall cement slab that stuck up out of the ground. Set into the stone at the top there was a metal disc the size of a saucer, engraved with a portrait. Over time the metal had turned green and bled all the way down the slab. The features of the portrait could no longer be discerned.

He didn’t stop so much to notice the names. What he found more interesting was that the avenues themselves had names. He didn’t see anyone resembling a caretaker. He didn’t know how he would find the grave except by walking around randomly. Then he began to notice arrows scrawled here and there on tree trunks and crypts, so he followed them. After awhile he thought he heard chanting. He walked toward the sound. As he got closer he realized it was someone playing a guitar and singing. They were very close by, but he couldn’t see them. The arrows started to multiply; some were actually painted in white right on the gravestones.

Suddenly there he was. A very small plot, a modest marker which simply said “James Douglas Morrison.” There were dates, and something at the bottom in a language Lem didn’t recognize. Flowers were strewn in front of the gravestone. A thin layer of fresh flowers, wrapped in plastic, covered a thicker layer of dead ones. He stood there for what seemed like a long time, unsure of what he felt. He had heard The Doors like anyone else, but he didn’t own any albums by them. He just kept picturing Val Kilmer. Maybe he didn’t feel anything. The music and singing went on.