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 16.

It was a pretty gross bombardment they kicked up yesterday night while I was bringing water to spend the time before my mother-in-law finished bread baking.

Two times when shuttling with the pails along the sidewalk I heard a quite close whistle overhead.

Bullets or missile fragments?

I soothed myself by reasoning that whatever they were there was not my name on them. What's the use of getting uptight after the threat is over?

And I beseech you, Mars, O God of War; in case more accurately addressed things are yet to come let me get killed once and for all.
No silly tricks with curability, regenerating, reanimation and such like blithering drivel.
One through my head would perfectly suffice, methinks.

Growing intensity of the bombardment forced my mother-in-law to leave for Underground and trust me handling the last batch of bread she put in the oven before I saw her over.

Today at 9 in the morning, I was at my work place to find nobody in the whole Editorial House.

For about two hours I fiddled around with the locked up drawer in my desk. All my attempts to make a skeleton key were no go.

Sadly giving up on it I just raped the lock open with a screwdriver.

From eleven till twelve a.m. Wagrum, Lenic and Arcadic peeped in, respectively.

Lenic asked if I would like to visit a room down the corridor to watch a game of chess. I reclined most politely.

<!-- Why on earth does Sahtik say I am an outright disaster in terms of sociability? -->

At noon I left a note on the desk for all that might care about my coming back at one p.m.

Sashic and Carina with their children were at our one-but-spacey-room flat, having lunch.

I presented Sahtik with the paper issue containing three voluminous renderings of mine.

Sashic promptly toasted the event, but I abstained not wanting to be back to work with vodka on my breath.

I wolfed down my lunch and went to Underground to fetch our heater.

Yesterday, there was handing out of brand new mighty looking heaters down there — a heater per compartment.

I planned to take our old one to my work place, but left it at home when Sahtik reminded me of the blackout we had been having since midnight.

Only a step from the Editorial House, I met Arcadic strolling away with an unknown youth. Arcadic told me to go home as there was no work this day.

I nodded humbly, slowed down as if pondering about alternative things to do and stealthily entered the Editorial House smuggling in THE BHAGAVAT-GITA hidden under the coat on my breast.

In the Renderers' I found my note on the desk turned over and used for the unsigned communication dashed off across the other side—'We are not working today'.

What a smart thing this BHAGAVAT-GITA is!

And so mightily moving!
It put to motion the very corner stones in my concept of the modern civilization origins sending them to much more eastern grounds.

Now, I know where from the Greeks ferreted out the ideas about innumerability of universes and tininess of atoms.

And the digits I always thought of as Arabic turned out to be invented millennia before Arabs came to existence.

And what would tell the Fathers of Church to the Trinity definition in the GITA? They could only dream of so refined subtleties!

Yet, here comes that bitter word of 'but'—
At being told for the first time that the human soul is an immeasurably wee spark residing in the heart of each and any individual, I just shrug my shoulders and say 'O.K.'
(I can trust anything when I am not hungry.)
I wince at the suggestion being repeated.
However, when it pops up for the third time I feel I'd like to know how it conforms to the organ transplantation.

If a saint's heart is inserted into a sinner's body (or vice versa), where should the migrant soul be sent after the receiver's death?
To hell or higher planets?

Still and yet, the supplementary discourse on impossibility to kill one's soul is surely refreshing stuff in the present situation.
At this moment, I looked out of the window to the right from my desk to behold this here situation and saw:

  • a provincial hotel in ages-long need of repair;
  • a squat elderly woman idling on the steep porch stairs;
  • a girl of ten piggybacking her thrice younger brat of a brotherlet;
  • a fuzzy cur limping across the lane between the hotel and the Editorial House.

All in all—a classical backwater town landscape enframed with non-stop shooting out.

At half past three p.m., the vet, warmly sent home two days ago to enjoy his wrongly deserved rest, came back on a visit.

Of all the doors in the Editorial House, only mine happened to be open.

Surprised, he asked if I had nothing to lock it up with.

I proudly had.

At half past four, I went home.

Sahtik with the kids had gone to Underground scared by the increasing frenzy of shooting out in Krkjan.

I went to visit them.

A feeble candle was oozing gruesome light to our meeting. We could hardly find a thing to say to each other.

Suddenly, an all-out gasp of cheer echoed throughout Underground.

The electricity appeared!
Thanks be to Edison!

I was doing yoga at home when Sahtik and Ahshaut came back.

He inquenchably disagrees to keep to Underground longer than it can't be helped.

Earlier in the day, the Twin Bakeries offered their dough for sale (their electrical ovens are useless during blackouts).

My mother-in-law didn't miss out on the opportunity.

In the evening she started bread baking but felt all in and repaired to Underground to keep Roozahna's company.

Sahtik continued the baking.

It's half-past-ten p.m. I'm home alone.
The relative calmness outside couldn't sway Sahtik to staying home.

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