One Hundred Years of Solitude

since Saturday and there was
no necessity for him to hear
their tiny whispering among
the leaves of the garden
because he would have felt
the cold in his bones in any
case. He was, as always,
wrapped in his woolen
blanket and wearing his crude
cotton long drawers, which he
still wore for comfort, even
though because of their
musty, old-fashioned style he
called them his Goth drawers.