RyanFleck · July 8, 2019 14:05
diff --git a/simplicity.html b/simplicity.html
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    <p>
      Title: Where do we go when we sleep?
      <br />Subtitle: A short article on dreamtime.
      <br />Date: 2019-06-17
      <br />Author: Ryan Fleck
      <br />Tags: [sleep, waking, dreams]
      <br />Links: [<a href="#">home</a>, <a href="#">catalogue</a>]
      <br />===========================================================
    </p>
    <p>
      "What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckled
      hands. "I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in person.
      I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a sale. Old
      Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited for a
      religious subject, Mr. Gray."
    </p>

    <p>
      "I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr.
      Hubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame--though I don't
      go in much at present for religious art--but to-day I only want a picture
      carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so I thought I
      would ask you to lend me a couple of your men."
    </p>

    <p>
      "No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to you.
      Which is the work of art, sir?"
    </p>

    <p>
      "This," replied Dorian, moving the screen back. "Can you move it, covering
      and all, just as it is? I don't want it to get scratched going upstairs."
    </p>

    <p>
      "There will be no difficulty, sir," said the genial frame-maker,
      beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from the
      long brass chains by which it was suspended. "And, now, where shall we
      carry it to, Mr. Gray?"
    </p>

    <p>
      "I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. Or
      perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top of
      the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider."
    </p>

    <p>
      He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and
      began the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the
      picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious
      protests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman's spirited dislike of
      seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it so as
      to help them.
    </p>

    <p>
      "Something of a load to carry, sir," gasped the little man when they
      reached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead.
    </p>

    <p>
      "I am afraid it is rather heavy," murmured Dorian as he unlocked the door
      that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious secret of
      his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men.
    </p>

    <p>
      He had not entered the place for more than four years--not, indeed, since
      he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then as a
      study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large, well-proportioned room,
      which had been specially built by the last Lord Kelso for the use of the
      little grandson whom, for his strange likeness to his mother, and also for
      other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keep at a distance. It
      appeared to Dorian to have but little changed. There was the huge Italian
      cassone, with its fantastically painted panels and its tarnished gilt
      mouldings, in which he had so often hidden himself as a boy. There the
      satinwood book-case filled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall
      behind it was hanging the same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king
      and queen were playing chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode
      by, carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he
      remembered it all! Every moment of his lonely childhood came back to him
      as he looked round. He recalled the stainless purity of his boyish life,
      and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to
      be hidden away. How little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that
      was in store for him!
    </p>

    <p>
      But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as
      this. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its purple
      pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden, and
      unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would not see
      it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? He kept his
      youth--that was enough. And, besides, might not his nature grow finer,
      after all? There was no reason that the future should be so full of shame.
      Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield him from
      those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit and in
      flesh--those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them their
      subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some day, the cruel look would have
      passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to the
      world Basil Hallward's masterpiece.
    </p>

    <p>
      No; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon
      the canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of sin, but
      the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would become hollow
      or flaccid. Yellow crow's feet would creep round the fading eyes and make
      them horrible. The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape or
      droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are. There
      would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined hands, the twisted
      body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had been so stern to him
      in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed. There was no help for it.
    </p>

    <p>
      "Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please," he said, wearily, turning round. "I am
      sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else."
    </p>

    <p>
      "Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray," answered the frame-maker, who was
      still gasping for breath. "Where shall we put it, sir?"
    </p>

    <p>
      "Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don't want to have it hung up. Just
      lean it against the wall. Thanks."
    </p>
  </body>
 </html>
	<!DOCTYPE html>
	<html lang="en">
	<head>
	<title>Simplicity-1</title>
	<meta charset="utf-8" />
	<meta
	name="viewport"
	content="width=device-width,initial-scale=1,shrink-to-fit=no"
	/>
	<style>
	html {
	scroll-behavior: smooth;
	overflow-y: scroll;
	overflow-x: hidden;
	-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased !important;
	-moz-osx-font-smoothing: auto !important;
	font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace !important;
	padding: 1rem;
	font-size: 17px;
	max-width: 100%;
	color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9);
	background: rgb(235, 213, 198);
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	</style>
	</head>

	<body>
	<p>
	Title: Where do we go when we sleep?
	<br />Subtitle: A short article on dreamtime.
	<br />Date: 2019-06-17
	<br />Author: Ryan Fleck
	<br />Tags: [sleep, waking, dreams]
	<br />Links: [<a href="#">home</a>, <a href="#">catalogue</a>]
	<br />===========================================================
	</p>
	<p>
	"What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckled
	hands. "I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in person.
	I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a sale. Old
	Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited for a
	religious subject, Mr. Gray."
	</p>

	<p>
	"I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr.
	Hubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame--though I don't
	go in much at present for religious art--but to-day I only want a picture
	carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so I thought I
	would ask you to lend me a couple of your men."
	</p>

	<p>
	"No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to you.
	Which is the work of art, sir?"
	</p>

	<p>
	"This," replied Dorian, moving the screen back. "Can you move it, covering
	and all, just as it is? I don't want it to get scratched going upstairs."
	</p>

	<p>
	"There will be no difficulty, sir," said the genial frame-maker,
	beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from the
	long brass chains by which it was suspended. "And, now, where shall we
	carry it to, Mr. Gray?"
	</p>

	<p>
	"I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. Or
	perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top of
	the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider."
	</p>

	<p>
	He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and
	began the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the
	picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious
	protests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman's spirited dislike of
	seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it so as
	to help them.
	</p>

	<p>
	"Something of a load to carry, sir," gasped the little man when they
	reached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead.
	</p>

	<p>
	"I am afraid it is rather heavy," murmured Dorian as he unlocked the door
	that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious secret of
	his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men.
	</p>

	<p>
	He had not entered the place for more than four years--not, indeed, since
	he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then as a
	study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large, well-proportioned room,
	which had been specially built by the last Lord Kelso for the use of the
	little grandson whom, for his strange likeness to his mother, and also for
	other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keep at a distance. It
	appeared to Dorian to have but little changed. There was the huge Italian
	cassone, with its fantastically painted panels and its tarnished gilt
	mouldings, in which he had so often hidden himself as a boy. There the
	satinwood book-case filled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall
	behind it was hanging the same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king
	and queen were playing chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode
	by, carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he
	remembered it all! Every moment of his lonely childhood came back to him
	as he looked round. He recalled the stainless purity of his boyish life,
	and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to
	be hidden away. How little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that
	was in store for him!
	</p>

	<p>
	But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as
	this. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its purple
	pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden, and
	unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would not see
	it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? He kept his
	youth--that was enough. And, besides, might not his nature grow finer,
	after all? There was no reason that the future should be so full of shame.
	Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield him from
	those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit and in
	flesh--those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them their
	subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some day, the cruel look would have
	passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to the
	world Basil Hallward's masterpiece.
	</p>

	<p>
	No; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon
	the canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of sin, but
	the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would become hollow
	or flaccid. Yellow crow's feet would creep round the fading eyes and make
	them horrible. The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape or
	droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are. There
	would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined hands, the twisted
	body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had been so stern to him
	in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed. There was no help for it.
	</p>

	<p>
	"Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please," he said, wearily, turning round. "I am
	sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else."
	</p>

	<p>
	"Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray," answered the frame-maker, who was
	still gasping for breath. "Where shall we put it, sir?"
	</p>

	<p>
	"Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don't want to have it hung up. Just
	lean it against the wall. Thanks."
	</p>
	</body>
	</html>