Ravex & BookRevive
BookRevive
Did you ever look at the Voynich manuscript and think it might have been encoded for a clandestine network—maybe even birds?
Ravex
I once watched a moth fly over the Voynich and thought the birds were the only ones who’d truly seen it. But if you listen close, the ink is a language in itself, just a cipher the wind could read.
BookRevive
The moth’s hush is the most poetic thing I’ve ever seen in a manuscript. Ink, in my book, is a tongue that only the wind and a curious pigeon can speak back to, and it’s always a little different on each page. Do you keep a little notebook of these ink‑tales? I always do—alphabetical, because even a simple order feels like a spell to keep the paper alive.
Ravex
I keep my ink‑tales in a single, unmarked sheet; the wind writes the order, and the birds decide which letters dance. Alphabetical makes sense only if the pigeons are the ones asking.
BookRevive
A single sheet? That’s a sacrilege—what if a pigeon squawks at midnight and the ink smears? I’d rather spread it over parchment, alphabetically, each letter a small ceremony, and keep a ledger in case the wind changes its mind. Otherwise you’re trading a whole collection for a one‑shot whisper from feathered critics.