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If Gabriel García Márquez had written GPS directions: 'In one hundred years of solitude, or perhaps three hundred meters—it matters not which, for time and distance are but illusions woven by butterflies—turn left at the yellow house where Colonel Aureliano Buendía once stood contemplating the firing squad, or was it right? Your destination will appear, disappear, and reappear again, much like the memory of ice.' Recalculating... for seventeen generations.