My dear, dear Mother, —
I have been so ill — have had the cholera, or spasms quiet as bad, and can now hardly hold the pen[. . .]
The very instant you get this, come to me. The joy of seeing you will almost compensate for our sorrows. We can but die together. It is no use to reason with me now; I must die. I have no desire to live since I have done “Eureka.” I could accomplish nothing more. For your sake it would be sweet to live, but we muse die together. You have been all in all to me, darling, ever beloved mother, and dearest, truest friend.
I was never really insane, except on occasions where my heart was touched[. . .]
I have been taken to prison once since I came here for spreeing drunk; but then I was not. It was about Virginia.