And so as the image of her features dissolved, I sensed this welter of feeling running back out of me toward the screen, which was becoming now a wash of hundreds of overexposed images, layered atop one another, all of them in motion, making it nearly impossible to distinguish one setting or object from another, like debris swept up in a current, only a fragment here or there—of a room I’d slept in or the street outside my parents’ apartment or the side of my grandmother’s face—familiar enough to leave me with the knowledge that this was my experience, all of it, moving past me in a rush, in a
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