One Hundred Years of Solitude

time he had wanted to do but
that he had imagined could
really never be done, not
knowing what he was doing
because he did not know
where his feet were or where
his head was, or whose feet or
whose head, and feeling that
he could no longer resist the
glacial rumbling of his
kidneys and the air of his
intestines, and fear, and the
bewildered anxiety to flee
and at the same time stay