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