Museum Part I My new words are housed in this ancient museum Dust softly wafts down to stick to ink as it dances across the paper. Immediately redundant and tired they fade further into irrelevance with each passing second. This ancient museum is a place where ideas come to grow lonely. No visitors crowd the corridors it is a monument to ego and hubris. The janitor's worn out broom barely teases the floor. Like him we are all just going through the motions- labelling exhibits that no-one will see justifying acquisitions with arguments of artistic merit that no-one will hear. Ringing as hollow as the hallways and empty promises made long ago. Going through the motions, our lives touch but make no impression. A beige world caught in neutral with an edifice of fake marble veneer you see where it has cracked from the weight of absent expectations. Inertia - a force so great it glues us to this place. And still my words spill onto the paper, collecting dust particles and ideas that will live forever undisturbed- lonely and forgotten in this ancient museum.