One of the most poignant songs of Jim Morrison is and will remain "The End." I have heard it several times and I sing it often. The lyrics manifest Morrison at his poetic best - unpredictable, exotic, charismatic. It's rather ironic that a few hours before he died, he listened to "The End" in his hotel room in Paris with his girlfriend for company.
This is revealed in this account by Rainer Moddemann's account "Jim Morrison's quiet days in Paris," which appears here.
It appears that Jim was tired and frustrated with his life as a rock star and wanted to write poetry and live as a poet in Paris, a city he loved. But dreams are dreams, right? All our dreams don't turn out the way we dream, do they?
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