Ross Hardy
Everything about Canon is at the sharp edge of absurdity: the story, despite its simplicity, barely makes sense; it’s at once our world and some anachronistic dreamscape; it strains against the limitations of prose and, on occasion, breaks loose—never in a contrived way; rather, a return to its most comfortable form. Canon is preposterous, but so is life. Paige Lewis intentionally cracks the shell of reality to show you the goopy yolk inside, and, well, I was moved by the yolk.
Everything about Canon is at the sharp edge of absurdity: the story, despite its simplicity, barely makes sense; it’s at once our world and some anachronistic dreamscape; it strains against the limitations of prose and, on occasion, breaks loose—never in a contrived way; rather, a return to its most comfortable form. Canon is preposterous, but so is life. Paige Lewis intentionally cracks the shell of reality to show you the goopy yolk inside, and, well, I was moved by the yolk.