Dear David Lynch,

I have a fantastic idea for a movie, and I just had to write you. I think it’s really up your alley. Are you ready for this? Here’s just one of the scenes that I know would really grab you:

So it’s a black, starless night in New York City, and a man and a woman are becoming acquainted in front of a dingy red apartment door. They seem to be waiting for something. The woman is repeatedly knocking, and they are staring at that door like strangers in an elevator: overly focused but affecting an air of aimless distractability, their eyes suddenly following the slight movements of lint on the floor, water dripping down the stained walls, then back to that door again, over and over.

Finally the door creaks open. Two beady eyes peer out at them from a face of pale, glistening flesh, all framed by a mess of curly hair. You know the type, it looks like he hasn’t been outside in a few years, he’s probably someone’s stalker on MySpace, his stove is dirty but he never cooks. He nods them inside.

The apartment is lit by a single dim, flickering bulb, and everywhere — I mean everywhere, it’s insane, you can barely walk in this place — are stacks of books and papers. (I’m no director, but I suggest that you zoom in on some of the titles, and make them blur into nonsense just as they ought to become readable: it’s a weird place like that.) The host nods again at a dusty couch hidden between the stacks, and the man and woman sit down.

He leaves into the next room, and they wait.

Hours seem to pass, and the man becomes restless. Somewhere, an animal is making a plaintive crying sound. The man searches around the cushions, around the stacks of books and papers, flickering in the dim light, and finally finds its source: it’s a small, bat-like, kitten-like rodent, with small ears and pointed teeth. Its tiny body is sprawled in between the books, and its eyes are squeezed shut, its mouth spread open with little sobs. He begins petting it in attempt to placate it, but he is only making it more upset: it’s crying louder and louder and louder.

“Stop it,” the woman says. “Stop doing that, you’re making it worse.”

“I can’t stand its crying” he says. “This is all I can do.”

The animal is making a truly terrible noise now, and the woman leaps up and violently pulls his hand away from it, so that he falls back against the stacks: she puts her own hand down on the animal’s belly. Perhaps sensing something strange, she looks down at her hand: it is covered in thick, burgundy liquid. The animal is gushing blood.

Here’s where it really gets good: the blood is acidic. Lord knows what kind of animal that was, right? It’s burning into her hand, and she starts beating it against the couch, wiping it on the books, trying to get it off her hand but like Lady Macbeth it’s too late for that now. She’s screaming, it won’t stop burning, her flesh is bubbling, everything goes black. End scene.

Awesome, isn’t it? I thought of this just the other night, while I was sleeping. I need to stop watching your goddamn movies.

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