автограф
     пускай с моею мордою
   печатных книжек нет,
  вот эта подпись гордая
есть мой автопортрет

Stepanakert
                   Saga

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рукописи не горят!.. ...в интернете ...   

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    days:

December 15.

This night dreams presented me with slow zoom-in of

vast emptiness in a colossal military tent with slowly quaking smeared walls of greenish sagged-in tarpaulin and no action at all just scrolling of the walls fiber close-up until...

shellbursts of a bombardment brought me back to the reality of our room all black as thunder.

The second day-off.

In the morning I took Ahshaut for a walk to the Main Post to send a birthday postcard to Nerses and Lydia's granddaughter who was Ahshaut's play-mate at weekend bouts of our and Larissa-Vanya's families.

Today she's two years old.

In the evening a tin tub was placed in the middle of our one-but-spacey-room flat to bathe the kids and Sahtik soaping their sides remarked pensively that the simplest and most routine things seem so weird amidst a war raging around.

I admitted that some TV programs do seem absurd to me when it shells outdoors.

With my back commencing to behave, I decided to resume my yoga exercises.

Some asanas—even after such a pause—remained as feasible poses as they used to be.

It's half past nine in the evening. The family went to Underground, but my mother-in-law is to come back for bread baking.

Uproar of dogged shooting out surges up in Krkjan.

стрелка вверхвверх-скок