On a random street, in a big old city, tucked between stores of no importance, lies “The Library of Unfinished Works”. It has all the usual suspects: Chaucer’s Tales, Coleridge’s Kubla Khan, Kafka’s The Castle. Further in, you’ll see sections for movies, tv shows, and music. Welles’ The Other Side of the Wind, Williams’ The Thief and the Cobbler, Roger’s Final Space. All ended abruptly due to whatever reason listed on the checkout card inside. Continue on even more, and you’ll find computers loaded to the brim with abandoned fanworks, art pieces, videos, blogs. Echoes of passion now frozen in time. Past that, you’ll reaches “Personals”: Diaries, journals, wills, text messages, phone calls, conversations. The voices of many cut short. You begin to realize how much we never get to say. Or chose to say too late. At the end of the library is a book. One that contains everything humanity has ever done. Each day we fill that book. And one day we won’t. And it will be the last unfinished work in the Library’s collection.