The Museum of Unfinished Works is a sprawling mess. It is a gallery, a library, a museum, an exhibition, a memorial, a tribute, an archive, a terrible warning, and so much more.
Nobody knows for certain just how big it really is, and it is constantly being added to.
It might be easier to say that it begins with the dawning of thought and ends with the totality of darkness. Everything in between that was begun but not completed can be found here.
Manuscripts abandoned mid-sentence for a better idea, sculptures that ran out of funding, sheets of music burned before their crescendo could be written are all stacked and piled in this place.
The abandoned, the rejected, the unwanted, the half-baked, and the unfortunate, all of them find their way to the Museum of Unfinished Works.
The only common feature between all of the numerous and disparate items in this collection is that they are incomplete, fragmentary things, sadly lacking the satisfaction of completion.
Sitting here, in my cage, somewhere within the vastness of the Museum of Unfinished Works, gazing out at the myriad mountains and avenues of beginnings without ends, I cannot help but wonder