Twenty nine pins. One for each year of existence. He took twenty nine different pins and thrust them into her hands. She writhed looking at them. One of them forced into her skin. A drop of blood appeared on her milky white fingers. He flinched at the sight of blood. He wanted her, she did not care. Twenty nine pins meant nothing to her. It was about her wishes and dreams and desires. He saw pins and she nursed her own pain. Years. They mean nothing. How you change matters. Into what you change matters. Twenty nine can well be ninety two pins, but she would not change her mind. Twenty nine pins.