THE TREE OF INFINITY

This is not a book. It's a beast.
It watches you as you read. It judges you while you laugh. It makes you smile just to watch you fall harder.
Inside, there is no plot. There is a family reunion of talking mushrooms, evaporated fathers, prophets in their underwear, and unforgiving hens. There is a bar that expands into a universe. A trattoria that serves as a dimensional rift. A notebook that writes itself-but only in ancient, local dialect.
Alejandro Fiorenova writes as if he were cursing with love. As if Kafka had eaten too much heavy food. As if Stephen King had served in the military with an Italian rogue like Diego Abatantuono (the soul of the Oscar-winning Mediterraneo), and they had just reunited at a post-apocalyptic barbecue.
It is too chaotic for those seeking logic. Too raw for those living on the run. Too human for those who believe they are eternal.
But if you accept the journey-wrong shoes, right wine, open heart-the Infinity will change you. Or it will make you worse, but in an interesting way.
This book is not read. It is endured. It is danced. It is digested over weeks. It is a prayer written in wine. A cosmic joke where you can't tell if you're laughing or screaming.