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



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

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December 30.

All the night through and till one p.m., missiles and artillery shells kept crashing the town.

A shell hit Urology Ward at the Hospital to perform a wondrously radical treatment. Eleven patients were killed and rid of their urinary problems.

At nine in the morning, I was met by a huge padlock on the Editorial House front door and no one in sight up and down the street. A classic lockout.

Sahtik sent me to Lydia with her share of sugar and matches ration coupons distributed at their school.

Lydia showed me a bullet she had picked up in their street and announced her intention to collect a necklace of them.

I ferried Ahshaut's cot to Underground.
To retain his chances of sleeping home sometimes, I went to Carina's to bring the discarded and stripped down cot of her son Tiggo.

Cutting of trees in the streets carries on.

In the Kirov Street an old man—a bashful wrongdoer with an ax in his hand—was closing on a tree in many a circle mumbling scruple-mollifying arguments to himself:

'So many dry branches in it, who'd call it a tree, eh?'

<!-- You can't survive without killing others.-->

People stop glassless windows with sheets of vinyl nailed from within.

In the afternoon the electricity came in. Thanks to I don't know whom.

When the cannonade subsides, fleeting nomadic groups pass the streets.
Their tiny convoys are usually headed by a pair of parents burdened with bulging bags and an enveloped babe close to the chest.
Two or three bigger kids keep a-trotting in the rear.
Fleeing to villages

You can't but think of ants rescuing their eggs: we all are alike and akin on this planet.

Good night to each and every creature.

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