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Word Count: 2,673
To whom it may concern My name is Louis Here I sit in this tiny room at this small wooden night table amongst the shadows that hide between the spaces of light and my sanity trying to write Here I sit staring for the last time out a porthole of a window into a world of whose pleasures I will no longer experience It is so quiet If not for the faint pattering of rain droplets upon the pane of glass I fear that I will surely go insane If I am not already Sunken am I in my minds misery Doomed to either 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 must be told By nights end you shall either find me handing this paper to you or dangling above it from a rope that now rests under the floor board No matter which outcome I should arrive at before dawn this must be told I am Louis Weichmann that is the name of what is left of the conscience in this decrepit form So appropriately I say I was Louis Weichmann Now I do not even feel human For I took part in a plot of not only deceit and death but of mutiny and treason A plot to tear apart the government of the United States of America did I hold a part A plot to murder the President Vice President Secretary of State and General of the Armed Forces Though I took no physical action to achieve these goals my very silence condemns my soul to where I belong beneath the greater depths of Hell Had I alerted the proper authorities Mr Lincoln might still be alive Cowardly am I But now the time has come when further forbearance and silence would be
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