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 17.

Just a model day.

At the work place, I knocked off two renderings and had a talk with my roommates.

Lenic was keen on my background and professional likings.
Even Wagrum for a while kept in check his usual volatility and alighted to partake in a short discussion of a Hellenistic subject.

I wouldn't call Wagrum a nice gossip—rejecting any novel thought, too ready to substitute chords for brains, chanting the corny parrot-cries from the inbred set of ideas they had formatted his mind with (as well as anybody else's among us for that matter).

True, the guy is fairly young, yet his hustle and bustle won't let him grow wiser when older.

At home, I basked in as happy a family life as any wise guy could reasonably expect. The life of down-to-earth problems when after mending the favorite tumble-toy of your kids you are sent to Underground where the shelter door is in need of finer adjustment.

Today I'm gonna do my yoga about six p.m. And then I'll have a supper and drink one vodka and go to bed at once because I have to get up at 2 a.m. and bring water for the washing that Sahtik scheduled for tomorrow.

Right now, the waterqueue at Three Taps is much too long, and I can't bring the needed lots of water at one go.

On the whole, the war wasn't too butting in today.
Thank you, December 17!

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