Two trucks or one truck bring the new things. Two men or one man bring the new things on their backs with their bones, their calloused hands ripping into flesh ribbons. Sweat stinging. They lay them down with the strength of one who wants the burden off their back as quickly as a thousand years worth of pain that burden has caused dictates. The new things slam to the floor, commanding.

You move the old thing. There is a love letter underneath; a child's scrawl mystery. It goes into your mouth. The floor is dirty, yet bright. The old thing moves out of the door. Away. The floor is scraped. This will become the tattoo you will remember it by.

The old thing gets tossed aside. Woodland vermin with eyes some think cute will nest in its hollows, oil poisoning them rabid. It kills many. This old thing. Ruthless, laughing vengeance.

You clear a space. You move something there. That leaves a space. You put something there…leaving another space. You spend twelve days filling spaces that are created by moving things to other spaces. You taste madness for a while, but choke it down, swallowing, sanctimonious.

Eventually old is new again. The old is forgotten except for the scrape tattoo. You step on it with your bare feet. It's sharp. You wear socks. It is forgotten. You worship the new.

Gates of Fire
Steven Pressfield