One Hundred Years of Solitude

yoked together in an
inviolable complicity.
Aureliano José could not get
to sleep until he heard the
twelve-oclock waltz on the
parlor dock, and the mature
maiden whose skin was
beginning to grow sad did not
have a moments rest until she
felt slip in under her mosquito
netting that sleepwalker
whom she had raised, not
thinking that he would be a
palliative for her solitude.