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At first, I thought it was a dream. My mother’s perfume in the elevator. The shape of my fifth-grade desk under my palms. Then came the static — the real static — the hiss of every birthday wish I never made, every slammed door I pretended to forget.

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The Ego is the user interface. It is the conscious "you" trying to balance your private desires with your public persona. At first, I thought it was a dream