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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December 8.

Yesterday at 11 p.m., Sahtik had to bring Ahshaut back home: he couldn't sleep in Shelter because of another babe crying in the same room. She left him with me and went back to Roozahna who gets in a funk when in a crowd alone.

From midnight till one a.m., I again was bringing water from Three Taps: Sahtik's capital washing is still in the progress.

My legs got used to navigating on their own over serrations in the sidewalk terrain and thus letting me enjoy the quietude of the night.

No shooting at all. How sweet the peace is!

<!-- As sweet as a piss after six cans of bitter beer.-->

At dawn two mighty bursts exploded in Armenavan — another uphill suburb neighboring on Krkjan. Ahshaut remained undisturbed by the bangs and slept on.

Later in the morning, he and I together had a walk to Bazaar to buy some herbs for today's feast – synchronized celebration of Roozahna's (almost a week after the proper date) and Ahshaut's (coming off in a fortnight) birthdays.

The usual feasting team of sisters-with-husbands-with-children turned up for the event with the augmentation of our landlord and lady, Armo and Nasic, respectively, and three their children.

The mother-in-law was not present, attending the funeral of the late neighbor – headmistress of all her three daughters.

Now, it's half-past-eleven. Sahtik and Roozahna have gone to the Shelter. Ahshaut is left to sleep home tonight.

Silence outdoors.

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