Like those benighted irridescent icicles or the tops and hooks off of ornaments. Which ornament? Who knows. Doesn't matter – it'll never fit again even if you do figure it out. And, if you try to make it fit, you'll break your delicate antique ornament handed down from great-great-great-whomever who carried it with such care as she fled her war-torn village to wash up on America's shores so she could hand down the thing, as you weep despondantly over the shards you now hold in your hands.