Land of Broken Dreams

For fifty years, Bob Smith built his backyard palace made entirely of junk. A trail leads from his house out into the woods to the Land of Broken Dreams, a little shanty village with some structures two stories tall. He built a tiny church and an artist’s studio and plenty of brightly-colored houses where birds and rabbits used to live. Paintings, clocks, and long-forgotten toys fill each one. Something hangs from every tree and every wall — mannequins, signs, broken statues, and suitcases. He checks on it once a year just to see what the wind has taken. He says Mother Nature can do with it what she will.

What do you think? Is it art? Is it junk? Should it somehow be preserved? Or should it be allowed to become overgrown with foliage and decay naturally?