During yesterday's water-walk, I met one more me—a cart-pulling figure with a flask of the same make as mine and plodding away from the same a-hell-of-a-faraway quarters.
At night I heard explosions of the GRAD—an advanced weapon of mass destruction, according to the Russian TV news program VESTI.
What will come next? An H-bomb?
In the morning I went to the Site.
The water hose was stolen.
I clapped up a rough-and-ready one-wheeled barrow. A robust thing—clumsy but functional.
From ten a.m. till now, the bombardment is going on. They fire five-to-ten missiles at a time every half-an-hour.
When at the Site, I watched a pillar of thick black smoke from a cottage set on fire by a missile. No crowd around it, no firefighters; only the usual shooting-like cracks of the roof slate being devoured by flames.
On the way back, I surveyed recent destructions.
In the building of Sahtik's school, there also appeared a fresh hole as wide as a church gate.
Lots of glassless windows a-gape above the side-walks littered with debris.
Rare cars burn the road.
Solitary pedestrians huddle down and look around after every thundering crack, some of them keep jogging.
I've trained myself not to pull my head into the shoulders at the bangs of bursting shells. Whenever they start to explode I switch on chanting of the Maha-Mantra in my mind—to secure a one way ride from this here world.
However, during one of the water-walks, in spite of all my cultivated braveness, I quaked and stooped very low at what I took for the wheezing of a shell fragment, but it turned out to be a loud mewing of a cat.
After lunch I, together with Arto, sealed up two rat holes in the Underground's room; some maintenance work was done there too.
One page translated.
The mother-in-law baked breads in Nasic's kitchen: the landlady's gas oven upstairs is much more efficient.
I had supper all by myself.
The water walk's ahead.