The water accepts me, wraps around me, accommodates me. Every surface is matched to my own, curves and planes and angles. There are bubbles, at first, but those separate and drift away, and we are left together, no difference between my body and the outline in the water, myself and my simulacrum. And that's love, isn't it? That's what love is. That's what it's like.
I open my eyes. Everything is blurred and shadowy. I open my mouth. Air rushes out, racing for the surface.
Soon I will breathe in, and there will be no differences at all.
Pinker on When Being Too Bright Ruins Writing
17 hours ago