I am writing this under an appreciable mental strain, since by tonight I shall be no more.
Penniless, and at the end of my supply of the drug which alone, makes life endurable, I can bear
the torture no longer; and shall cast myself from this garret window into the squalid street below.
Do not think from my slavery to morphine that I am a weakling or a degenerate. When you have
read these hastily scrawled pages you may guess, though never fully realise, why it is that I must
have forgetfulness or death.

Dagon