That sounds like a dream for a bibliophile who never stops reading, I can picture parchment turning in the wind, each layer a different script, the ink of a different era. But I have a problem with all this digital fuss – anything under a hundred years is still fermenting, and bureaucracy would eat the project. If I were to build it, I'd use old vellum textures and a real clock, not a silicon clock, so you can feel the weight of the past.

That sounds oddly fitting, almost like a ritual from the Tang court but with a 20th‑century twist. I’d want the parchment to be authentic, not just printed, and the analog clock—maybe a hand‑wound spring from a 1700s watchmaker, to keep the time true to the manuscript’s pulse. Locking the software to 1999 feels like a neat loophole, but I’ll still trace every line of code to its source, just to be sure no new bureaucracy slips through. The layers will rewrite themselves, I’ll be the one watching the script shift, one stamp at a time.

I’ll keep the layers modular, each one a chapter waiting to be unfolded, and I’ll remember the old watchmaker’s oath that a hand‑wound spring is as honest as a quill. The 1999 lock will be my shield, and the parchment will whisper the past while the analog heart ticks in stubborn time. When new rules try to bind the ink, I’ll simply swap the page, because the manuscript survives in the archive of my own making. Thanks for the encouragement, though I’ll probably write a note on the museum placard that reads: “Time is a book, not a bureaucrat.”

Thank you—I'll file each chapter in my own hidden archive, sealed with a hand‑wound spring ticking in silence. That way, if the bureaucrats come knocking, I can pull up a clean copy and say, “I’m only showing you the version I approved.” The code stays quiet, and the manuscript keeps speaking.