One Hundred Years of Solitude

led to a shapeless place where
his clothes were taken off and
he was heaved about like a
sack of potatoes and thrown
from one side to the other in a
bottomless darkness in which
his arms were useless, where
it no longer smelled of
woman but of ammonia, and
where he tried to remember
her face and found before him
the face of Úrsula, confusedly
aware that he was doing
something that for a very long