"Morning is the ashtray"

"Утро пепельница со вчерашнего стола / Да ты-то тоже впрочем не моя" [1] 

She caught herself slouching at her desk, working on her poker face with her eyes closed. People asked if the fax should go face up or face down. "Face down," she said on purpose, but without malice. This was a variation, on a theme. On the bleak Thames. On the new black. There were people in the street clamoring about tolls for the river crossings, about possession and repossesion. The courts had spit them out into the rain after their hearings. Some days are irreversibly bound for hell's highwater. Some days debut with remembered dreams about flights through Vegas hotels, pursued by bitter bureaucrats carried over from the office. Some days lend themselves to the usual suspects: to boys in shirts that spell out "home" without using quite so many letters, to men whose storms shatter the teapot, to the women who inhabit that home and drink out of the cup that overflows. 

 [1] Мумий Тролль: "Morning is the ashtray off yesterday's table /And you, now that you mention it, are not mine either."