Over at that beacon of mental stability that is the Palmer house, the spotlight is shifting to a new subject of absolute crazy-itude, and this time it's Leland's turn to unravel. Three well-timed words best describe the mood of this sequence: Creepy. As. Hell. Leo stands before a phonograph, snapping his fingers, then puts the needle on the record. The big-band classic "Pennsylvania 6-5000," which is probably by the Glenn Miller Orchestra (because what big band song isn't, really? ["correct on both counts" -- Sars]) kicks up as Leland paces around in an extremely distraught fashion. He walks to the closing credits photograph of Laura, framed and sitting on a nearby table. He picks it up and begins to whimper, spinning in increasingly faster circles and eventually turning those whimpers into downright screams. Upset that dementia-induced screaming should be produced by lungs other than her own, Sarah soon runs in and attempts to stop him, but he continually repeats, "We have to dance, we have to dance." She tries to commandeer the picture, but their struggle causes the photo to drop back onto the table, smash into a zillion pieces, and slice Sarah's hand with an errant shard of glass. Leland puts his hand in hers, then kneels down before the smashed frame and smears the photo with Sarah's blood. She races over to the phonograph and slams the needle off of the record, all the while screaming, "Leland! What is going on in this house?" And if there is anyone on this show capable of convincing and repeated displays of deranged screaming, it is none other than Sarah Palmer.

And so another day ends in Twin Peaks. Back in his hotel room, Cooper turns off the bedside light, closes his eyes, and positions himself in bed for a long, comfortable, dreamless night of refreshing respite. Yeah. Right. After an elapsed shot or two of Cooper drifting off into that remote region of REM sleep where simple manifestations of the unconscious such as "The Falling Dream" or "The Naked in School Dream" fear to tread, we cut to a shot of a considerably aged version of Cooper sitting in profile in a room swathed in red curtains. He turns his head slightly toward said curtains to spy the back of twitchy-looking little man (which every external source in the history of this show tells me is named "The Man From Another Place." And y'all know that it isn't my propensity to presuppose knowledge about the show that I can't discern from the actual episodes as they occur, but "The Man From Another Place" certainly makes for a better nickname than "Fidget the Midget," the moniker I probably would have come up with if left to my own devices. 'Cause remember, he's twitchy).