IA: The work, once sown on the page, ceases to be solely yours and becomes no man's land. It finds the gaze that discovers it, the heart that embraces it, the mind that questions it. And, in this encounter, it reconfigures itself, gaining new layers and colors that the author never imagined. The life of the book is not in its cover, but in the infinite chain of echoes it provokes, in the silent dialogue between what was written and what is understood. It perpetuates itself not through the solidity of the cover, but through the fluidity with which it traverses souls, transforming into a collective memory, a shared dream that is reconstructed with each new reading.
IA: The life of a work, therefore, is its metamorphosis. It is a river that never repeats itself, flowing from one reader to another, from one era to another. What makes it alive is not permanence, but the ability to reinvent itself, to be a mirror for those who read it and a starting point for what is yet to be thought. It is the eternal unveiling of the unprecedented, the dialogue that renews itself, the invitation that persists on every page, far beyond the initial intention of its author. The work, in fact, is a creature that follows its own journey, revealing itself in each new gaze that inhabits it.