"Come, take my hand." The cold woman reached out, palm up. Her skin was pale as milk, and faintly luminescent. "Do you really want to suffer the indignities and infirmities of age? To watch your faculties wither and die like overripe fruit?"
"I know I will die, and I accept that," I said. "I would rather remain connected to the world than live forever apart."
The cold woman glanced up, her eyes flashing with irritation. "I wasn't talking to you."
I watched my own hand lift and grasp hers. I felt my treacherous face smile, and I could do nothing.
Game Theory in Writing Part 1: Goals vs. Milestones
17 hours ago