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. --- real-writer.html | 2 +- 1 file changed, 1 insertion(+), 1 deletion(-) (limited to 'real-writer.html') diff --git a/real-writer.html b/real-writer.html index db24449..068b8d6 100644 --- a/real-writer.html +++ b/real-writer.html @@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
-

Sometimes I feel as though I am not a real writer.
I don’t smoke. I don’t wake up early but I don’t sleep
all day either. I find myself increasingly interested
in dumb luck. Chance: I’ve found two dimes in as many
days. Does this mean I’ve found twenty lucky pennies?
I want you to participate. You the reader. You,
the probabilistic god of my dreams. I’ve been having
strange dreams lately. I don’t remember them but
they leave impressions. A bare foot. A tunnel
of hair from her face to mine. A boat stranded
in a living-room. Something warm. Something like the sun
through my eyelids. A hand, with all its dead symbology.
My teeth have fallen out. No, you pulled them out
with your hands, threw them over your left shoulder
like salt, to wish away bad luck. I have something
to tell you: bad luck follows like a dog. It lets you
get ahead for a few days, a week, a year. You’ll see,
it’ll bite your sleeping face when you’re not looking.
I’ve been dreaming about the future, I know. In my dream
I am not a writer, I live in a place with rain. You
are sunning yourself as you read this, on a beach or
maybe a desert. Let me move in with you. I can cook
or clean or take care of your dog while you’re out.
I’ll never have to write again. I’ll watch television.
Do I want to become a writer? Tell me. Should I smoke?
I can sleep all day in your attic if you want, become
your god, lose my own, settle to the bottom of the bed
like a boat in a river, dream about nothing but furniture.

+

Sometimes I feel as though I am not a real writer.I don’t smoke. I don’t wake up early but I don’t sleepall day either. I find myself increasingly interestedin dumb luck. Chance: I’ve found two dimes in as manydays. Does this mean I’ve found twenty lucky pennies?I want you to participate. You the reader. You,the probabilistic god of my dreams. I’ve been havingstrange dreams lately. I don’t remember them butthey leave impressions. A bare foot. A tunnelof hair from her face to mine. A boat strandedin a living-room. Something warm. Something like the sunthrough my eyelids. A hand, with all its dead symbology.My teeth have fallen out. No, you pulled them outwith your hands, threw them over your left shoulderlike salt, to wish away bad luck. I have somethingto tell you: bad luck follows like a dog. It lets youget ahead for a few days, a week, a year. You’ll see,it’ll bite your sleeping face when you’re not looking.I’ve been dreaming about the future, I know. In my dreamI am not a writer, I live in a place with rain. Youare sunning yourself as you read this, on a beach ormaybe a desert. Let me move in with you. I can cookor clean or take care of your dog while you’re out.I’ll never have to write again. I’ll watch television.Do I want to become a writer? Tell me. Should I smoke?I can sleep all day in your attic if you want, becomeyour god, lose my own, settle to the bottom of the bedlike a boat in a river, dream about nothing but furniture.