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. --- deathstrumpet.html | 10 +++++----- 1 file changed, 5 insertions(+), 5 deletions(-) (limited to 'deathstrumpet.html') diff --git a/deathstrumpet.html b/deathstrumpet.html index 496a448..1741f92 100644 --- a/deathstrumpet.html +++ b/deathstrumpet.html @@ -42,11 +42,11 @@
-

He didn’t have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing,
top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine
begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese.

-

He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining
it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized
it was a terrible metaphor.
He practiced for six hours a day—what else to do?

-

Death looks at himself in the mirror as he plays.
The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules.
Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving
but he’ll never know unless a stranger is polite enough.
Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone.

-

He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later.
He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggy
since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two.
The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke.
He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there,

-

there’s only a little boy with dead eyes. So far so good.
He’s playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past him
and watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid’s good.
Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand.

+

He didn’t have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing,top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vinebegging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese.

+

He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imaginingit was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realizedit was a terrible metaphor.He practiced for six hours a day—what else to do?

+

Death looks at himself in the mirror as he plays.The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules.Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shavingbut he’ll never know unless a stranger is polite enough.Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone.

+

He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later.He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggysince he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two.The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke.He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there,

+

there’s only a little boy with dead eyes. So far so good.He’s playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past himand watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid’s good.Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand.