A tongue-lashing of a bronze cast book swung around on a fulcrum by wind blown over its masted sail. It is a gallery piece whipping up and down as a lick of flame catching light; darting shadows out along the walls and floor. Felicity kept it in a roofless quarter separated from the main housing area. It is a dangerous piece of work. The sail is a golden rusted red. It billows stories above the flat cut concrete walls which keeps this mechanical tidbit penned as if it was a wild agitated bull.