I remember being a priest. I remember a place similar to Macondo. I felt like Father Nicador as I was warning the people against the sin of disobedience. I remember wooden beams with strange symbols going across the ceiling. I remember following a white winged horse. There was a sweet but haunting melody as I was waking by the swamp carrying the burden of sacred words. I was inside a cold, dark room. I remember the heretics, the fornicators. I remember surrounded by numerous wreaths, several women holding handkerchiefs. I remember crying aloud with a vengeance, kneeling in the sand. I remember heaven, I remember hell. I remember being a priest.