The night of November 22, 1968, remains etched in my memory as one of the most vivid, quietly transformative, and almost sacred experiences of my youth. That evening, though outwardly unremarkable and cloaked in the familiar cold grayness of a late autumn in Moscow, felt charged with a subtle but profound significance that would linger with me for decades. The city outside was settling into the early chill of impending winter, its streets hushed beneath the pale glow of streetlamps, the distant sounds muffled by layers of snow and concrete, and within my cramped, dimly lit apartment, an atmosphere of hushed anticipation quietly took hold. The Beatles, who to much of the world represented a cultural revolution, had just released an album that was unlike anything before it — a self-titled double record, starkly known as the White Album due to its minimalist cover. To Western audiences, it was an event met with
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