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What’s beneath the surface, I wonder.  Always. I used to take apart talking dolls. I’d remove the battery cover and try to figure out what was making the “Mama” sound. Even so young I understood the doll did not talk. I understood that what I held in my small hands was a creation, an illusion. A fabricated collection of rubber and hard plastic dressed up in fancy clothes and presented to me to hug, hold, feed, cling to in the absence of the real thing. What I didn’t understand was why.

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