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 26.

In the morning I decided to give up spirits for good, even consumption of beer.

One missile attack in the morning didn't shoo the electricity out.

The Renderers' was warm and teeming with guests and visitors, even Boss among the others.

I rendered two articles. Arcadic sent me upstairs to ask Mrs. Nvard, the paper's queen in disguise, if she had any remarks about my one-week-old rendering of her mawkish essay on the life in basement shelters.

She was in her office room shedding tears and complaints over the phone about her younger son enlisting a phedayee PHEDAYEE —
     (Armenian borrowing from Greek) "freedom fighter".
group.

My rendering was bestowed with her highest appraisal.

On coming back to the Renderers', I started one more spiritual talk with Wagrum.
He retaliated it with a political one.

Veelen, a reporter, presented me with two booklets he had picked up from the floor in the CPSU District Committee Block.

The glossy artifact from the Azeri capital presented the Karabakh conflict and the snakes in the grass nation of Armenians in terms of hate conforming to the international standards of printability.

At home I was again visited by Slavic.
We had a supper for two, however, drinking was exclusively his concern.

Meanwhile, a water-tank truck pulled up in the street bringing water to Twin Bakeries.

People from the immediate neighborhood instantly swarmed around.

My mother-in-law was not among the last in the queue filling up all the flask-and-cask from our household.

Slavic helped me to drag them in.
At that point the electricity was cut off anew.

It's half-past-nine p.m. I'm writing by a candle because the oil lamp was taken over to the Underground.

Ahshaut sleeps home.

Placid darkness outdoors. Good night to all.

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