about a man who invented a time machine； and I have discovered that； in the writing of these memoirs； I have created my own time machine。 Unlike Wells's； it can only travel into the past … back to 1932； as a matter of fact； when I was the bull…goose screw in E Block of Cold Mountain State Penitentiary … but it's eerily efficient； for all that。 Still； this time machine reminds me of the old Ford I had in those days： you could be sure that it would start eventually； but you never knew if a turn of the key would be enough to fire the motor； or if you were going to have to get out and crank until your arm practically fell off。
I've had a lot of easy starts since I started telling the story of John Coffey； but yesterday I had to crank。 I think it was because I'd gotten to Delacroix's execution； and part of my mind didn't want to have to relive that。 It was a bad death； a terrible death； and it happened the way it did because of Percy Wetmore； a young man who loved to b his hair but couldn't stand to be laughed at … not even by a half bald little Frenchman who was never going to see another Christmas。
As with most dirty jobs； however； the hardest part is just getting started。 It doesn't matter to an engine whether you use the key or have to crank； once you get it going； it'll usually run just as sweet either way。 That's how it worked for me yesterday。 At first the words came in little bursts of phrasing； then in whole sentences； then in a torrent。 Writing is a special and rather terrifying form of remembrance； I've discovered … there is a totality to it that seems almost like rape。 Perhaps I only feel that way because I've bee a very old man （a thing that happened behind my own back； I sometimes feel）； but I don't think so。 I believe that the bination of pencil