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It’s not always what it seems.

Winter marauder Pax vomited knee-deep snow, packed us in it and rolled us like a bowling ball. As our momentum grew, random flotsam and hapless jetsam became embedded — a two-dollar bill, Anita Bryant, chunks of Puerto Rico, pink marshmallow peeps, Victor Yanukovych, a criosphinx. Everything tumbling, careening, bouncing, jolting, jarring, hurtling, whizzing, trundling, slip-sliding away. We crashed into the sun and blew into bedraggled shards. Anita and Victor and Puerto Rico bloodied one another for the two-dollar bill while the criosphinx looked on and ate the soggy pink marshmallow peeps. And then the scene changed.

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Where were we? The Raven-writer and the old Peanut Leader knew, but only one could tell.

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