David Lynch, the cinematic conjurer who made the mundane menacing and the surreal sublime, has left this plane of existence at the age of 79. Lynch didn’t merely live life—he sifted it through coffee grounds, wrapped it in plastic, and set it aflame in the Red Room of our collective unconscious. The cause of his death? Officially unknown, though witnesses claim a man in a black suit whispered something incomprehensible before disappearing into a flickering streetlight.

Born in Missoula, Montana, Lynch spent his early years gazing into the American abyss, finding not darkness but an infinite sea of oddities—singing radiator women, log-wielding oracles, and love letters delivered with severed ears. He took this vision to the screen with works like Eraserhead, Blue Velvet, and Twin Peaks, reshaping cinema into something less tangible, more haunting, and infinitely weirder.

To say the world is stranger because of Lynch is an understatement. His influence can be seen in every inexplicable glitch in the matrix—a record that skips to reveal a hidden message, a diner booth that feels just a little too quiet, the way the wind rustles the trees when you’re alone and uncertain. Lynch turned the ordinary into a Möbius strip of mysteries, reminding us that the beauty of life is in its unanswered questions.

He is survived by his family, a host of bewildered yet grateful fans, and the unsettling feeling that he’s still out there, directing scenes from behind the veil. In his honor, the owls are not what they seem tonight, and somewhere, a man with a pencil mustache is singing into a void.

Good night, Mr. Lynch. May your next dream be a strange and beautiful one.