nostalgia and history are not interchangeable.

TERUG IN DE TIJD: Project X, hoe kon het in 2012 zo misgaan in Haren?

Nostalgia, a sentimental longing for one's past, predicts or augments psychological wellbeing (PWB).

Like most things in life, the answer is a complicated balance. And you have to find your way and find your balance, which isn’t easy no matter who you are or what you do. After two years of trauma, I’m going to crack on loads more. Make some new memories, new good times, which in the future I’ll be able to look back on as part of my nostalgia. Just have to find that tricky balance.

it did fortify a sense of shared culture and it came to the news, at least, citizens across the political spectrum tended to operate using a shared set of facts

TLDR: Amateur and poorly executed "Qix" type arcade game. Play Lightfish instead. It uses the same core concept but executes much better.http://store.steampowered.com/app/116120/Lightfish/E

A good riddance from the ultra realistic modern 2021 games . Or maybe its my personal opinion that most games towards the better side should be like 16-bit only. It certainly took me back to the era of Nintendo when I frankly used to enjoy gaming the most. The look and feel of Tobe's quite resonates with good old konami games, Contra, adventure island, Super Mario, Circus Charlie, Dangerous Dave.

This is a new version of the game and it's actually worse than the one I used to play as a child. Puzzles have been removed, pathfinding is buggier than I remember it to be and you can't aqcuire a specific item at the beginning of the game. It's definitely not worth buying, even for nostalgia's sake.

Warning: might be influenced by nostalgiaI'm really happy to have found this little gem on steam :)

This is the game that introduced me to RTS genre in the 90s though it might be nostalgia speaking but i absolutely adore this game.

Maybe its a bit of nostalgia, but that can't change anything on greatness of the game.

an old towel with a knot in it

“It was a young boy I used to know,” she answered, “named Michael Furey. He used to sing that song, The Lass of Aughrim. He was very delicate.”

O, the rain falls on my heavy locks And the dew wets my skin, My babe lies cold....

Listening tonight to the names of all those great singers of the past it seemed to me, I must confess, that we were living in a less spacious age. Those days might, without exaggeration, be called spacious days: and if they are gone beyond recall let us hope, at least, that in gatherings such as this we shall still speak of them with pride and affection, still cherish in our hearts the memory of those dead and gone great ones whose fame the world will not willingly let die.”

“For me,” said Aunt Kate, who had been picking a bone, “there was only one tenor. To please me, I mean. But I suppose none of you ever heard of him.” “Who was he, Miss Morkan?” asked Mr Bartell D’Arcy politely. “His name,” said Aunt Kate, “was Parkinson. I heard him when he was in his prime and I think he had then the purest tenor voice that was ever put into a man’s throat.” “Strange,” said Mr Bartell D’Arcy. “I never even heard of him.” “Yes, yes, Miss Morkan is right,” said Mr Browne. “I remember hearing of old Parkinson but he’s too far back for me.” “A beautiful pure sweet mellow English tenor,” said Aunt Kate with enthusiasm.

Nobody answered this question and Mary Jane led the table back to the legitimate opera. One of her pupils had given her a pass for Mignon. Of course it was very fine, she said, but it made her think of poor Georgina Burns. Mr Browne could go back farther still, to the old Italian companies that used to come to Dublin—Tietjens, Ilma de Murzka, Campanini, the great Trebelli, Giuglini, Ravelli, Aramburo. Those were the days, he said, when there was something like singing to be heard in Dublin. He told too of how the top gallery of the old Royal used to be packed night after night, of how one night an Italian tenor had sung five encores to Let me like a Soldier fall, introducing a high C every time, and of how the gallery boys would sometimes in their enthusiasm unyoke the horses from the carriage of some great prima donna and pull her themselves through the streets to her hotel. Why did they never play the grand old operas now, he asked, Dinorah, Lucrezia Borgia? Because they could not get the voices to sing them: that was why.

It was that of an old song of Aunt Julia’s—Arrayed for the Bridal.

where nostalgia (“Make America Great Again”) has replaced historical consciousness or felt experiences of the past