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I think of Mr。 Jingles dying while my back was turned and my attention usurped by an unkind man whose finest emotion seemed to be a species of vindictive curiosity。 I think of Janice； jittering away her last mindless seconds as I knelt with her in the rain。
Stop it； I tried to tell John that day in his cell。 Let go of my hands； I'm going to drown if you don't。 Drown or explode。
〃You won't 'splode；〃 he answered； hearing my thought and smiling at the idea。 And the horrible thing is that I didn't。 I haven't。
I have at least one old man's ill： I suffer from insomnia。 Late at night I lie in my bed； listening to the dank and hopeless sound of infirm men and women coughing their courses deeper into old age。 Sometimes I hear a call…bell； or the squeak of a shoe in the corridor； or Mrs。 Javits's little TV tuned to the late news。 I lie here； and if the moon is in my window； I watch it。 I lie here and think about Brutal； and Dean； and sometimes William Wharton saying That's right； nigger； bad as you'd want。 I think of Delacroix saying Watch this Boss Edgebe； I teach Mr。 Jingles a new trick。 I think of Elaine； standing in the door of the sunroom and telling Brad Dolan to leave me alone。 Sometimes I doze and see that underpass in the rain； with John Coffey standing beneath it in the shadows。 It's never just a trick of the eye； in these little dreams； it's always him for sure； my big boy； just standing there and watching。 I he here and wait。 I think about Janice； how I lost her； how she ran away red through my fingers in the rain； and I wait。 We each owe a death； there are no exceptions； I know that； but sometimes； oh God； the Green Mile is so long。
Author's Afterword
I don't think I'd want to do another serial novel （if only because the critics
