The Edifice

"Good God, what the hell is that monstrosity?"
The other looked offended. "That is one of our proudest creations," he replied. "We call it The Philosophical Edifice."
They were gazing at a massive sprawling mansion of sorts, a building that sprouted the most fantastic shapes, with sections often tottering on the brink of apparent collapse, but atop of which, in defiance of all reason, would appear doomed efforts to continue building, while more than intermittent piles of rubble all around were the incoherent memories of previous masonic fragments, from which piles workers would fill their wheelbarrows and bring the stoical and loyal stone to current areas of construction.
"What lunatic is responsible for all this?"
"Well, the lunatic you speak of is more than one, for starters," came the dignified response. "There have been many architects."
"All incompetent?"
"We have had some setbacks, yes, but we are refining our methods. We have very high hopes for a new mortar mix we are experimenting with."
"You might also have a closer look at your foundations while you're at it."
The other smirked. "Even if such a thing could, or should, be considered- which it shouldn't," he hastened to add, "it's much too late to be thinking like that."