Oftentimes, the indecipherable aesthetic of unfinished art baffles me. With each brush stroke that adorns my canvas, a melancholic numbness engulfs my being; for everytime it finds a new form It's current mien dies with it. I snap photographs, hang them on walls—an innuendo of past lives of an artwork. Taking one glimpse of the "aesthetic of the unfinished", I adorn it with layers of new paint— for you must convey a moral to the world. A twist in my heart: a longing to witness a finished artwork, yet mourning over it's passing miens. What's really an artwork but a graveyard of it's past forms? Rtr. Michelle Perera