Here's the part about my experimental short story, "When Silence is an Old Warehouse and Love is a Pocketful of Rocks":
In case you can't read that because you're not an Air Force pilot/weren't born with x-ray vision/never got the cyborg optical enhancements for your Sweet-16, here's what it says:
Many of the most interesting pieces of fiction examine or undermine ideas of speaker, information, or the traditional narrative arc. One notable love story about communication and art, by Jackson Bliss, labels each paragraph as either "Cubes," "Spheres," Cylinders," or "Cones." The speaker is self-consciously prolix, by turns witty and earnest, and the drama he recounts over an uninitiated conversation is handled nicely.
Now, to be honest, I find nothing insightful about this review. I don't personally think the narrator is prolix, though I agree he's self-conscious. I'm not convinced that my short story is about "communication + art" either as much as I think it's about the male gaze, invented alternative realities + romantic speculation. It's about the way in which art theory/art history filters the way we understand + identify our reality. It's also about the delusional genius/endless violence of the human mind. Lastly, this short story is about one-way love. The educated observer/narrator is in love with a girl he's never talked to. She's in love with a painting. They mirror their one-sided relationship both to each other + to their objets d'art. But like I really care? More than anything, I'm just glad someone's reading my shit. On that level, I'm ecstatic.