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Пишет onkel_mitch ([info]onkel_mitch)
> В Москве сносят дом вместе с людьми: семья Егоровых утром
> первого сентября проснулась от грохота - рабочие начали
> демонтировать их пятиэтажку.

Дуглас Адамс все-таки классик:

AT EIGHT O’CLOCK on Thursday morning Arthur didn’t feel
very good. He woke up blearily, got up, wandered blearily
round his room, opened a window, saw a bulldozer, found
his slippers, and stomped off to the bathroom to wash.
Toothpaste on the brush—so. Scrub.

Shaving mirror—pointing at the ceiling. He adjusted
it. For a moment it reflected a second bulldozer through
the bathroom window. Properly adjusted, it reflected
Arthur Dent’s bristles. He shaved them off, washed, dried
and stomped off to the kitchen to find something pleasant
to put in his mouth.
Kettle, plug, fridge, milk, coffee. Yawn.
The word bulldozer wandered through his mind for a
moment in search of something to connect with.
The bulldozer outside the kitchen window was quite a
big one.
He stared at it.
“Yellow,” he thought, and stomped off back to his bedroom to get dressed.
Passing the bathroom he stopped to drink a larger glass
of water, and another. He began to suspect that he was
hung over. Why was he hung over? Had he been drinking
the night before? He supposed that he must have been. He
caught a glint in the shaving mirror. “Yellow,” he thought,
and stomped on to the bedroom.
He stood and thought. The pub, he thought. Oh dear,
the pub. He vaguely remembered being angry, angry about
something that seemed important. He’d been telling people
about it, telling people about it at great length, he
rather suspected: his clearest visual recollection was of
glazed looks on other people’s faces. Something about a
new bypass he’d just found out about. It had been in the
pipeline for months only no one seemed to have known
about it. Ridiculous. He took a swig of water. It would sort
itself out, he’d decided, no one wanted a bypass, the council
didn’t have a leg to stand on. It would sort itself out.

God, what a terrible hangover it had earned him
though. He looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror. He
stuck out his tongue. “Yellow,” he thought. The word
yellow wandered through his mind in search of something to
connect with.
Fifteen seconds later he was out of the house and lying
in front of a big yellow bulldozer that was advancing up
his garden path.

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