Some years ago, I inadvertently entered an infinity reading room, where texts and fragments flitted before my eyes. In that web of time, I do not exist; in some, both you and I do. As The Garden of the Forking Paths (1941) by Jorge Luis Borges suggests, ‘book’ is a physical and metaphorical labyrinth. The end of a story leads to the beginning of another, and the cycle continues inexorably, making the readers difficult to leave.