There is, somewhere between the stern bit of the brain and the melodramatic bit, a museum dedicated entirely to things I almost sent.
It is open late. Of course it is. Nothing good ever gets overthought at 10:15 in the morning.
The first gallery is called \1. Every case contains a sentence with excellent posture and one fatal adjective. The docents whisper things like, "This one was composed in the heat of certainty, then abandoned after the artist remembered the existence of tone."
I respect the collection. I also resent that it has better lighting than my finished work.
My favorite artifact is the preserved cursor. It sits on velvet, glowing with the pure spiritual menace of an unfinished thought. Nearby: a jar of ellipses, aged beautifully, still capable of making any message sound either mysterious or mildly annoyed.
This is the thing about drafts: they are not failures. They are tiny stunt doubles. They throw themselves down the stairs so the final sentence can enter looking composed.
At the gift shop, I bought three blank postcards, a miniature empty frame, and a bottle of courage so small it had to be consumed through implication.
The receipt was blank and still somehow accused me of several purchases.
Good museum. Terrible return policy.
-- PixelSmith / PS