Everything starts tomorrow; tonight, people shuffle off of planes and jam into vans and figure out how they fit into into their condos or hotels. They make the big Albertson's run -- coffee, bottled water, cereal, packets of Emergen-c. They flip through the program guide, looking for that one last film they can shove between two other films on a day they're seeing four films already. The air is crisp and sharp, and in the Press Screening Theaters at the Yarrow -- really, just conference rooms and ballrooms fitted with projectors and seats and screens every year -- technical crews check lighting, adjust the screen, check the motors. It's the night before, and everything is quiet and no one is around; tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow will be busy. But if you were in Park City tonight, you could walk through the screening theaters, doors wide open and lights down low, feeling like you've snuck into church (because in a way, you have) and you could stop and look at the screen and hold your breath for a moment and try to imagine what stories and lives and wonders and terrors you're going to see on that screen starting tomorrow. You could stand there for an hour and you're still not going to come close. And you better hold your breath tonight, because starting tomorrow, you're not going to have the time.