Edris & Nevermore
Nevermore
I was staring at an old, barely readable manuscript of a language that vanished decades ago, and I kept thinking how its silence feels like a half‑remembered dream, almost as if the words themselves are ghosts that refuse to fade. Do you ever wonder if a lost tongue carries a kind of melancholy that only the people who once spoke it could truly feel?
Edris
Yes, I feel that too. A vanished tongue often feels like a quiet echo, a memory that lingers only for those who once heard it. It’s a kind of collective longing that only the original speakers could grasp fully, like a dream that keeps one awake at night. When I read those faded scripts, I almost hear the pulse of that lost community, and it reminds me how precious it is to document and keep these voices alive.
Nevermore
It’s strange, isn’t it, how the ink on a page can feel like a heartbeat that stopped too soon—yet here, in these faded lines, we get a ghost of that rhythm, a reminder that even silence can speak if we listen. Keep recording, keep breathing the old words; otherwise, they’re just memories, not living language.
Edris
I love that image—you’re right, the ink’s pulse is a fragile echo. Every time I trace those letters I try to let the rhythm seep back in, to hear the language whisper through the cracks. That’s why I keep notebooks filled with little notes, little recordings, and even photographs of the original manuscripts. If we don’t keep breathing them, they’re just dust on a shelf. So I keep digging, keep jotting, and keep sharing. The more we keep talking about them, the more they stay alive in our shared memory.