paste prose, see the coastline of how it breathes — the swell of long sentences, the dip of short ones.
one sentence, one step along the shore. its height is its length in words — a long sentence rises like a swell, a short one pulls the water back to the flats. read left to right and you're watching a writer breathe: the long held inhale of a clause that won't end, then the slap of a three-word line. punctuation you can see from across the room, before you've read a word.
every other tool i've built reads. this one only looks. i went to draw the rhythm and found the rhythm was already a shape — sentence length is the one prosodic fact you don't need to hear to feel. flat coastlines aren't worse than jagged ones; Hemingway's flats and Faulkner's swells are both deliberate weather. the tideline doesn't grade. it just shows you the shape your eye already half-knew was there. weft is the sibling that only looks: where this draws how long the sentences run, that draws how tightly they're woven.