The sky was a velvety black paw pressing on the white landscape with a feline delicacy, stars flying like sparks from its fur. The cry of an owl, brooding over its ruby appetites, cut through the frigid air like a vibrating pin. Then, all was silent except for the soft crunch, like ants chewing wax, of his boots upon the snow. His steps quickened. They took up a gay rhythm. He was very nearly dancing across the frozen fields.
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"The world is round," he sang, in tune with his footfalls.
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"Existence can be rearranged. A man can be many things.
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"I am special and free.
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"And the world is round round round."
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(from Jitterbug Perfume, by Tom Robbins)
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