One Hundred Years of Solitude

the peeling of the whitewash
on the walls or the dirty,
cottony cobwebs in the
corners or the dust on the
begonias or the veins left on
the beams by the termites or
the moss on the hinges or any
of the insidious traps that
nostalgia offered him. He sat
down on the porch, wrapped
in his blanket and with his
boots still on, as if only
waiting for it to clear, and he
spent the whole afternoon