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