Then, suddenly, a glow emanated from the screen. It was golden, like God. The warm air of the 1970s wafted over me, and I fell into a paralytic hypnosis. A show played on the screen but another thing was happening on a separate level, inside a secret flap of consciousness, and there was something autumnal about the feeling it generated, deep and nostalgic, regressing my heart to a past date that might have been real and might have been a mishmash of fiction or advertisements or childhood happiness, or a collection of weather: the pleasure of a rosy-lit room in a cold season, the dream of a
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