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I am an elder millennial. When I think back to my glory days, they were peppered with late nights dancing into the wee hours of the morning.
You would stumble into a warehouse or nightclub at 11pm, lose yourself completely to the music, and suddenly, oops, there's daylight streaming through grimy windows.
You'd made lifelong friends with strangers in sticky-floored bathrooms, shared that euphoria of musical frisson as the bass dropped and the crowd moved as one pulsing organism.
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These core memories are etched so deep into our psyche that even now, when 'Love Generation' by Bob Sinclair comes on shuffle, it still sends trickles of euphoria down your spine.
You're instantly transported back to that sweaty dance floor, arms in the air, completely and utterly alive.
They were the times you clung to years later when you were deep in the trenches of motherhood, bouncing a screaming baby at 3am. You'd think: Well, I'm here now and surviving, but bloody hell, I lived.