March 6
In the morning a roll of toilet paper slipped out of my hands and spun away unwinding its white band over the worn-out floorboards of our one-but-spacious-room flat.
Moxie voices and eager door claps sounded in the Club corridor: the commotion brought about by sugar- and flour-coupon distribution among the paper staff.
Lenic came at eleven more calm and restrained than yesterday. We just smalltalked.
In the afternoon, after Sahtik's tip that Nerses had come from the village, I visited him to ask for instructions about the two grape saplings I planted on the Site last autumn.
He shared his knowledge and wanted me to take from him one more vine shoot for planting. I declined, yet promised to come after it this very day next year.
'If only,' intervened Lydia, 'when speaking of the future never miss out on these words – "if only".'
I asked from her THE GULAG ARCHIPELAGO. The abridged one-volume edition of THE ARABIAN NIGHTS I am in now is at its end.
One page from Joyce.
Recently, our intercourses with Sahtik have obtained, to my mind, some tinge of anti-war struggle. Well, today's action of protest was in the missionary position with Sahtik having the lead, which she does so nicely.
One hour of strumming the guitar—NORWEGIAN WOOD by John and Paul.
And, once again, returned the winter with an endlessly unwinding snowfall. The trees in the streets look like those in fairy-tale woods where even the tiniest twigs are dolled up in fluffy snowcoats of their own. Many of wounded limbs in the trees cannot withstand the slow flow of flakes unrolling from the low sky—they break off under the weight, drop down and get buried in the white expanses of snow, which is already no less than five inches deep.
Yoga. Supper. Water-walk.
From the north-eastern valley came sounds of the cannonade.
I saw the family over to the Underground.
One thing is ahead (if only) and it is a — Good night.
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