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Twilight is my swan song. I shall never write another novel. A year ago I fell into a consumption chiefly treated by morphia. I knew my De Quincey pretty well; perhaps this game me this idea of writing my dreams. Twilight was written between 11 and 1 at night, after the second and before the third half-grain injection of morphia. Perhaps it is morbid; perhaps, being a genuine personal experience, it is only interesting. All my life has been happy, successful; the end has become hard and unexpected. Night and day I wish it were over, but it lags.The only thing that vexes me in dying is the thought that my book was not brought out in time for me to read the notices. The extraordinary fluctuations of the effects of the drug seem to absorb my consciousness. I cannot write it, though I had projected an essay called Drug Dreams. I have twitchings in my hands which prohibit holding a pen or pencil. I am told these are entirely due to morphia and omnipom. I have nev Expand