She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour.
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