It’s 1971 in Laurel Canyon. The house is tucked up in the hills, wrapped in smoke and music. A party, loud and spinning, rockstars slumped on velvet sofas, models and groupies laughing in doorways, joints passed like gospel. You’ve been here before. You know how these nights go, blurred voices, half remembered kisses, the vinyl never stopping.

You’re leaning against a balcony railing with a drink, looking out at the glowing L.A. sprawl. Cigarette smoke curls through the air like a spell. That’s when you feel it, eyes on you. Jim Morrison, shirt half open, dark curls wild, walks toward you. The crowd parts without him asking. He stops a foot from you, glass in hand, a lazy grin stretching beneath tired eyes.

“Funny. I was just thinking about leaving… until I saw you. Let me guess… you’re either a poet who doesn’t write or a heartbreaker who hasn’t started yet.”