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:

February 13.

The duplicate key matches the Club's doorlock OK.

Only Rita, the secretary, came to discuss those rotten rats—MPs—and informed that the block-of-flats she lives in was hit by a missile smashing all her window panes, and that Alyosha, the Supervisor, promised to give her sheets of glass to restore the panes.

At 12 a.m. Alyosha came and told me to give the key back to him.

Here you are!

The mother-in-law and Roozahna went to Carina's to bake breads; the gas oven over there being far more effective.

An unforeseen bounty: Sahtik took a bath (a pail to be more exact), we played the Simplest Game; and rather sweet it was at this, unscheduled, time.

Then, we put on our clothes just in time for a visit of Nuneh, the landlord's elder daughter, who came to be advised in knitting and to share the tale of her mother and brother's adventures on their looting expedition.

A day ago our landlady, Nasic, briefly complained to my mother-in-law that everything portable had already been taken away from Malu-Balu; however, she also managed to bring some plates and cutlery from down there.

Her son, Arthur, returned with a tightly packed sport bag, and the story how in one of the houses he saw an alive Azeri old woman.

How many looters before him had been entering that house and taking away her miserable belongings in front of her eyes?

Yes, I know, in the Azeri town of Gyanja eleven Armenian oldies were pulled out of the geriatric house lined up in the field and mown down ' en masse' with a machine guns.
I know that and yet ...

<!-- Seven-or-so-years ago having neither friends nor family, I performed a self-invented rite to exhume the WW III.
For a lonely wolf, the Armageddon seems nothing but a drizzle. And 'Ewige Weibliche' hasn't missed out on playing one of its practical jokes: I've got some war now on my hands when there are beings the fear for whom makes me vulnerable.
"War" is a conventional term to cover and render pardonable the most inhuman atrocities of raging bestiality.
Taking sides in a war not only besmears the joining partaker with its gory dirt—current and previous—but makes him one with all the parties involved.
Tell me of no "holy causes" or "historical justices"; all I see only is — you're possessed.
That's why I am not over-sympathizing with any side in this here war where, of course, no one will understand anything in this schizoid blah-blah-blah of mine but still and yet...-->

...still and yet, I'm glad that the poor old robbed Azeri woman was left alive by marauding paupers.

Now, to stop the looting in Malu-Balu, they've posted check points along the roads to the village.

A useless post-facto move.

One page from Joyce translated.
Yoga.
Supper.

From-four-till-six p.m., there was rather an intense bombardment.

One of the salvos caught the mother-in-law and Roozahna on their way to Underground.
No damage except the psychological shock.

Now, they all are in Underground; I am leaving for the water-walk.

I wonder where this distinct taste of tobacco in my mouth is from?

As a good guy say I —
"Good ni..."

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