I am raising a glass on what would have been the seventieth birthday of Jim
Morrison.
When I die, then I should like to be cut in half, after the
manner of Saint Catherine of Siena. Her top half is in Siena, her bottom
half is in Rome.
But which half of me should go to the Cimitero degli
Inglesi with Gramsci and Keats, which half to Père Lachaise with Oscar
Wilde and Jim Morrison, and why?
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