It is cold outside. I am outside. I am cold.
I see you, through the window. I remember what it was like to be inside, in the light. To be warm.
It is cold outside. You cannot know how cold, not until you feel it. I could show you. I could show you the frozen trees and the spearhead icicles. I could show you the unmoving river and the hollow at the bottom, where the water still runs frigid over my body. I could show you everything. I would like that.
It is so cold, and you are so warm.
Pinker on When Being Too Bright Ruins Writing
17 hours ago