Roughshod

Shorn from the letterpress, the totaled wreck of messed scandal cascades from the mount, falls from its altar of duty and tears a hole of bright space from the wall of items.

'What, ho!' says young scallion, raptured in visceral delight. 'A showering of newness, I see.'

'Let the past be the past,' says the Old Sea Dog, perfuming his beard in cherry pipe smoke. 'We don't want to be tearing pages out of the history book for breakfast. Best to put it all back up from where it came.'

'Hammer and chisel, for me,' says the scallion, buffaloing towards the pile of roughage and jetsam now mountained on the carpet. 'I want to tear through to the back of the back, I want to see what can be made from the old.'

'Nothing ever born is new,' the Sea Dog says. 'Let the dead stay dead, it's their only rest in years. I'll hire the cleaner to come round in the morning and put it back where it came.'

'Ah 'tis a terrible pity all the same.'

A pity-pile, for two pitiful pairs, staring at the heap of things, left for the burying, slowly peeling wallpaper up to hide the cracks made by yesterday.