I am in the supermarket. I don't really know what I'm doing here. I decide to check out the books, but soon I am next to the magazines stuffing my own mouth full of toothpicks (the blood tastes like the cherry tooth-gelatin they had at the dentist's office when I was a kid). While my mouth is gushing cherry, I focus on the magazines, which doesn't last long; to my left, a lecture is going on in an infernal, terra-cotta amphitheater. They are discussing the ghost of José Arcadio Buendia