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Dear Hank Williamson,


I am writing, fresh eyed and bushy tailed, on the wee end of a visit to Crimea. I have not been in many years, and I am happy to report back to you, my dear Hank Williamson, that the beaches are as grand as I remember, the sunsets over Sevastopol bring the same tear to my same eye that came so many many years ago. Even the pierogi were as good as I remember, better even than those in Dnipro, Donetsk, Petrapovlarsk, and even Odessa. 


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