and memory creates a kind of practical magic； and magic is dangerous。 As a man who knew John Coffey and saw what he could do … to mice and to men … l feel very qualified to say that。
Magic is dangerous。
In any case； I wrote all day yesterday； the words simply flooding out of me； the sunroom of this glorified old folks' home gone； replaced by the storage room at the end of the Green Mile where so many of my problem children took their last sit…me…downs and the bottom of the stairs which led to the tunnel under the road。 That was where Dean and Harry and Brutal and I confronted Percy Wetmore over Eduard Delacroix's smoking body and made Percy renew his promise to put in for transfer to the Briar Ridge state mental facility。
There are always fresh flowers in the sunroom； but by noon yesterday all I could smell was the noxious aroma of the dead man's cooked flesh。 The sound of the power mower on the lawn down below had been replaced by the hollow plink of dripping water as it seeped slowly through the tunnel's curved roof。 The trip was on。 I had travelled back to 1932； in soul and mind； if not body。
I skipped lunch； wrote until four o'clock or so； and when I finally put my pencil down； my hand was aching。 I walked slowly down to the end of the second…floor corridor。 There's a window there that looks out on the employee parking lot。 Brad Dolan； the orderly who reminds me of Percy … and the one who is altogether too curious about where I go and what I do on my walks … drives an old Chevrolet with a bumper sticker that says I HAVE SEEN GOD AND HIS NAME IS NEWT。 It was gone； Brad's shift was over and he'd taken himself off to whatever garden spot he calls home。 I envision an Airstream trailer with Hustler gatefolds Scotch…taped to the walls and Dixie