There was always someone outside of the chalk circle. Someone who needed money, someone who had a son with whooping cough, or someone who wanted to go off and sleep forever because he could not stand the shit taste of war in his mouth and who nonetheless, stood at attention to inform him: "Everything normal, Colonel." And normality was precisely the most fearful part of that infinite war: nothing ever happened.
( Gabriel García Márquez )
[ One Hundred Years of Solitude ]
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