It was a push pin. There was nothing really to it. A delicate plastic side opposed by a needle-sharp edge. To call it a needle-sharp edge brought up an oddity, where the adjective needle-sharp effectively described itself. Would you describe blue as appearing blue? The push pin was one of a pack, nothing entirely significant. There were no poetic threads to be tugged at neither were there dormant stories within. The piece was unnatural, factory-made. The push pin was one of a pack, nothing entirely significant. The body was transparent. Though there may be some implications of using the word ‘body’ to ascribe a term to the plastic part of the push pin, none such implications amounted to very much. Writing could be made fascinating by consolidating great lapses of time, you could tell of an entire decade in a single paragraph. Reading novels, I was given the personal experience of what it was like to see through the eyes of an author. And here I was, looking at a push pin. It was quite evident that my view was lacking and the push pin was waiting. The push pin was waiting for something, anything, interesting to be brought forth from its existence. May this push pin not be just another push pin amongst the pack. But it was. Words did not fail me, I failed in my search for words. My descriptions were sparse, I was striving to be descriptive and was barely reaching Carverian levels of detail. I could write so many sentences and still say nothing, every piece fell inward and I lost sight of the outside. Look it’s happening right now.