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 24.

The sable dark of the night, randomly speckled with the warm glitter of bulbs in the houses climbing the steep hillsides, makes up the ground charged with a clothes line tout 'a bend' (though sagging a bit under the gross weight of the hung out washing).

The view is available at nights from the queue at the "Suicide's Waterhead".

It looks like the most fit coat of arms for this here town.

About ten in the morning, the homely glow from the blockstone heater next to my desk in the Renderer's was cut off by another blackout.

Poor me, cold is a thing I fear most badly.

Rendering of an article full of heated patrioticy made me no warmer.

During the break, to start my round of X-shopping I bought a book of science fiction for Sahtik.

A small crowd gathered near the Mayor Hall to admire a light tank manned with a native crew loading up an oblong box with, presumably, ammunition.

Someone in the crowd called out my name.

It was Gago of Sarushen village. Surprised to see me. He thought I had left long ago.

'Are you a resident spy, after all?' asked he with a grin.

I informed him on my recent getting a job and inquired if he had risen to the phedayee PHEDAYEE —
     (Armenian borrowing from Greek) "freedom fighter".
major rank.

We parted with a handshake.

At the Renderers', Alia, the typist, came to share her terror-dripping apprehensions.

She had never sinned, nor breached any law, nor participated in the liberation movement. And now, irrespective of her so cautious a lifestyle, both she and her children were endangered.
Deadly. Constantly.
What a dreadful indiscrimination! It was so unfair.
Who would defend them now without the Soviet Army down here?

I tried to comfort her with a piece of Persian history.

At four p.m. the personnel was sent home and the Editorial House closed.

My intention to continue the X-mas shopping fell short in view of huge padlocks on all the shops.

And only the tiny shop next door to our place happened to be open.

From there I bought a black belt for Roozahna.

The purchase knocked me back 27 monets.

I spent the evening assembling the X-mass tree.

The pine limb I picked up and brought home yesterday yielded enough spare parts for the construction.

Now it's decorated and placed on the bookcase partitioning our one (but spacey) room into two.

There are two socks under the the tree left by Roozahna and Ahshaut—one from each kid.

The sock from Ahshaut contains three walnuts wrapped in silver paper.
He sleeps in his cot.

The other sock is crammed with the black belt for Roozahna to find it in the morning when she comes back from Underground.

It's ten past ten p.m. An artillery blast banged in the upper part of the town.

Merry Christmas to everybody.

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