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I was driving along Highway 1 in a state of agitation.
My ears picked up the faint sound of music, though I use the term loosely, for it sounded as if the melancholy last waltz of Von Weber were being played on a chalkboard by an ensemble comprised of feral cats.
Back in the car, I noticed an orange box wrapped with black ribbon.
I climbed out of the car and saw that it stood in the middle of Bay Hill Road, pointed west towards the foamy waters of Bodega Bay, upon which broke the first rays of dawn.
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