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 12.

An exemplary calm night was followed by a no worse day. The machine-gun shooting and the like petty trifles are of no account.

At 9 a.m., I visited the TMC where they glibly clapped the missing stamp-smear of theirs into my military identification card.

Maiden day at a new job.

The Renderers' is a chilly corner room with three windows in two walls and three office desks. At times a pack of idling men assemble in it one-by-one to wag their jaws and to offset the air chillness with rough smoke from their cigarettes. Still it's a good thing to have a work place!

And I tried to make a good beginning:

  • in the room I borrowed from Wagrum the key to duplicate it;
  • in the corridor I made friends with Alya
               (so, it's her first day too! well I never! a typist? wow!);
  • from the Typists' I collected four typed renderings of mine to proofread them before submitting the stuff to Head of Russian Section.

About three p.m., I was told I might leave: there was no more work for today.

A nice and cozy family evening at home.

Sahtik was playing with Ahshaut, Roozahna reading in undertone, the mother-in-law sleeping, I shaping and filing the duplicate key.

At 8 p.m., the mother-in-law commenced to bake breads in the gas oven. I saw Sahtik and the kids to the Underground.

Sahtik complained of unbearable cold droughts breaking in the compartment from behind the hanging rags.

After a long and winding way meandering between and over the heaps, stacks and hills of boxes, pipes, bottles and sundry jumble of suchlike jetsam, I reached the deepest, dustiest and darkest corner in the room.

A pitch black hole—two by two feet—gaped there letting in a constant icy breeze.

I stopped the hole with a piece of cardboard.

No sooner had I climbed out of that dust abyss through the other doorway in the compartment than a tall guy rigged out in a stylish overcoat and expensive fur affair on his head confronted me in the main tunnel.

He demanded my explanations as to what right I had to cut off the air coming in for all the Underground.

I let the sleeping dogs lie and told him it was not a complete closure and some air was still getting in.

<!-- All things considered, my statement was true to some extent. You bet he'd never dive in that dust maze to validate my report. -->

At home, my mother-in-law surprised me with a pensive question whether I trusted in God after all.

I guess her queer query was prompted by a priest's visit to Underground who handed out throwaways with printed prayers and bibles for kids.

I answered there were so too many of Them and I had not made my final choice yet.

It's half an hour before midnight. The mother-in-law has just finished bread baking and gone to Underground.

A freezing wind outdoors sweeps snow dust along the street.

At times a cannon shell adds its bang.

Fiat nox.

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