From 643d9ceb308c206a6e572c7c555168ff0ca60bc1 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Case Duckworth Date: Fri, 27 Mar 2015 15:40:42 -0700 Subject: Fix #5: Verse typesetting Thanks to the pandoc-discussion thread at , line breaks in verse have been converted to s, which enables the CSS to style them with hanging indents, given a too-small viewport. This commit also includes a makefile edit to reflect this change, and the Haskell source and executable of the pandoc filter. --- apollo11.html | 12 ++++++------ 1 file changed, 6 insertions(+), 6 deletions(-) (limited to 'apollo11.html') diff --git a/apollo11.html b/apollo11.html index 5cb6842..033b4f2 100644 --- a/apollo11.html +++ b/apollo11.html @@ -44,12 +44,12 @@
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So it’s the fucking moon. Big deal. As if
you haven’t seen it before, hanging in the sky
like a piece of rotten meat nailed to the wall,

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a maudlin love letter (the i’s dotted with hearts)
tacked to the sky’s door like ninety-eight theses.
Don’t stare at it like it means anything.

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Don’t give it the chance to collect meaning
from your hand like an old pigeon. Don’t dare ascribe
it a will, or call it fickle, or think it has any say

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in your affairs. It’s separated from your life
by three hundred eighty-four thousand miles of space,
the same distance you stepped away from time that night

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you said your love was broken, a crippled gyroscope
knocking in the dark. It was then that time fell apart,
had a nervous breakdown and started following you

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everywhere, moonfaced, always asking where you’re going.
You keep trying to get away from it but it nuzzles closer
and sings you songs that sound like the cooing of a dove
that will only escape again into an empty sky at dawn.

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So it’s the fucking moon. Big deal. As ifyou haven’t seen it before, hanging in the skylike a piece of rotten meat nailed to the wall,

+

a maudlin love letter (the i’s dotted with hearts)tacked to the sky’s door like ninety-eight theses.Don’t stare at it like it means anything.

+

Don’t give it the chance to collect meaningfrom your hand like an old pigeon. Don’t dare ascribeit a will, or call it fickle, or think it has any say

+

in your affairs. It’s separated from your lifeby three hundred eighty-four thousand miles of space,the same distance you stepped away from time that night

+

you said your love was broken, a crippled gyroscopeknocking in the dark. It was then that time fell apart,had a nervous breakdown and started following you

+

everywhere, moonfaced, always asking where you’re going.You keep trying to get away from it but it nuzzles closerand sings you songs that sound like the cooing of a dovethat will only escape again into an empty sky at dawn.