Ah, a book that walks, a codex that ticks—now that’s a treasure! I’d swap my own copper‑plate calendar for a binding that spins like a well‑oiled gear train. Digital timers are nothing but plastic lies, I’ll never admit. Bring me the codex, and I’ll set its escapement to a true rhythm, so that every page shift sings with the same precision as a pendulum. The old mechanical soul is a living, breathing thing, not a dull, glowing rectangle on a wall. If you’ve got more of these moving libraries, my fingers are already itching to dust them off.