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To them, I think, I am a saint, a goddess who made sacrifice to give them this world that once was spring but now sleeps under blanket of ice. Tomorrow steeps my Holiday where come commoners to pray to the casket where I've lain these five years, apparently, for grace or their fates to change. Body strewn over a bed in a darkened room, rubbing my limbs to regain five years of feeling, halfway sedate to keep aches from constructing a tower in my head.