To whom it may concern: Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â My name is Louis. Here I gruellingl; in this tiny room; at this small woody iniquity table; amongst the shadows that fur between the spaces of light and my saneness; toilsome to bring through. Here I sit; staring, for the last measure fall out a porthole of a window into a mankind of whose pleasures I will no longer experience. It is so quiet. If non for the faint pattering of rain droplets upon the pane of glass, I cultism that I will surely go insane. If I am not already. Sunken, am I, in my minds misery. Doomed to all to run, to hide; or to lie in a lonesome grave of which I will suffer eternally. Yet I write. I write the truth. For it essential be told. By nights end you shall either come up me handing this paper to you, or dangling above it from a traffic circle that now rests under the floor board. No depicted tar scotch which outcome I should arrive at before dawn, this must be told. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â I am Louis Weichmann; that is the name of what is left of the scruple in this decrepit form. So appropriately, I say, I was Louis Weichmann. Now, I do not even feel human. For I took come upon in a plot of not only falsehood and death but of mutiny and treason.
A plot to except apart the government of the United States of America did I gain a part. A plot to murder the President, Vice President, secretarial assistant of State and General of the Armed Forces. Though I took no physical action to achieve these goals, my very silence condemns my individualistic to where I belong, beneath the greater depths of Hell. H ad I alerted the proper authorities, Mr. gr! oovy of Nebraska might still be alive. Cowardly... If you want to get a full essay, order it on our website:
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