Twenty months of relentless engagement. With unimaginable anticipation for the final result. With indescribable gratitude to all the talented people who responded to our invitation for a loving book with almost 30 analytical texts about the world of David Lynch. 

Until, suddenly, the whole endeavor took on an otherworldly tone, like dealing with an uninvited grief. Thank you for the walks into the unfamiliar behind crimson curtains. For the chilling melodies without a band in the club of silence. For the snakeskin jackets that symbolize personal freedom. 

For the severed ears in peaceful flowerbeds that disturb every deceptive sense of security. For the ladies hiding in radiators and the monstrous infants. For the giant rabbits that provoke the most inexplicable shivers in the routine of the living room. For the hypnotic yellow lines of night journeys on an endless highway to nowhere. For the starry nights that lovingly cover the endless straight road. Mr. Lynch, we will surely meet again, there is no doubt. Maybe in 25 years. Maybe in dreams. Maybe in the stars.