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Its interpretation is already supplied with the obvious: "opening a can of worms." It's already there, laying on the table of your head. It seems to muzzle thought with it. There's nothing left to open. A clot of interpretation, hard to think around. Attempting to back up a bit is only the critic's attempt to create another can, which, erudite preservationist they are, may demonstrate their prowess in opening, sealing. That the rabbit must arrive unharmed at the other side is lost on most critics embalming. But whose hat, can, worm, rabbit, is this? Our problems bottled all the way down, art is the canning factory, of worms. The only thing worse than a worm in your apple? A whole can gone bad of them. Is this your hand or mine?