Lynch turns the Porsche off an unmarked exit that seems to appear just as we need it. The road becomes gravel, then dirt, then something else—a surface made of memory and static. Ahead, the skeletal frame of a drive-in movie screen rises against stars that are either too bright or too numerous for 2025.

“Here,” Lynch says, cutting the engine. “Watch.”

The Starlight Drive-In has been closed since 1976, except it’s still operating, except it never existed. The screen flickers with a movie that isn’t being projected. The sound comes through the Porsche’s radio though we haven’t turned it on: fragments of commercials from 1958, mixed with prophecies from 2030, mixed with teenage conversations that happened here in 1964.

Crosby leans forward from the back seat. “You see those speaker poles?” he says, pointing to the rusted sentinels that march in rows through the empty lot. “They’re still broadcasting. Not movies anymore. Something else.”

He’s right. Each pole hums with a different frequency of the sacred. From one comes the murmur of first kisses that happened here, layered over each other like geological strata of desire. From another, the prayers of kids in back seats, asking their personal gods for courage, for love, for understanding. A third transmits the collective dream of everyone who ever stared at this screen and saw their future written in light.

“American sanctity,” Lynch says, lighting a cigarette that glows like a tiny sunrise, “tends to accumulate in places like this. Places where people came to dream together in the dark.”

The empty lot is no longer empty. Or rather, its emptiness is so complete it’s become fullness. Each parking space is a shrine to a particular variety of hope. The cracked pavement is a mandala of shared longing. The concession stand, its windows dark and broken, still pulses with the energy of every transaction that was really a communion.

“Look at the screen now,” Crosby whispers.

The flickering has resolved into something almost comprehensible: images of Paris-become-Margaret, Cara-become-Catherine, and Kendall-become-Barbara, their divine transformations echoing in every grain of this dissolving celluloid. Their dance merges with ancient drive-in footage of James Dean, of Elvis, of every rebel angel that America dreamed into being under stars like these.

“The sacred,” Lynch says, his words hanging in the air like smoke signals, “doesn’t just leak through here. It pools. Collects. Waits for the right viewers.”

We sit in the Porsche, watching the unprojected light paint prophecies on the screen, listening to the speaker poles broadcast their gospel of memory and desire, as the stars above pulse in time with the rhythm of an eternal return.