She walks through 1977 Astralwood, L.A. like a lace ghost who refuses to fade—glitching in and out of colour The city behind her barely holds its shape: men watching, signs flickering, a dog passing like a bad omen.

Sunflower yellow blooms across the screen, too bright to be natural. It's not nostalgia—it’s interference. The dream is glitching.

She keeps walking. That’s the point.