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 17.

It can be scored as a day of impossible incredible calmness.
They say the international commission has arrived.

In the morning four or five members of the editorial staff popped up, in turn, at the Club for no longer than a couple of minutes each.

Only Rita sat for some half-an-hour describing the destructions she had seen, and how during the bombardments she was covering her face with a blanket to stave off uglifying scars in case a missile hit her place and she were wounded.

She ended in her usual vein lashing out at the bunch of social misfits calling themselves the Government. The wackos were not fit to hold the candle to Boss.

<!-- It seems she unconsciously believes that if he were down here and not in Yerevan (where he, actually, is for a month or so), everything would get all right somehow.
He's so big and solid looking.-->

Yesterday I—maybe all too audaciously—ate a gone off bit of bread and today it has been keeping me if not running then, at least, striding hurriedly.

<!-- No-one to blame though—you've got your five wits, pal. Look before you pick a thing up.-->

After the lunch an irresistible spell of sleep felled me.

No Joyce.
No yoga.

Sashic brought a pail of barleycorn.

In the evening we had the regular (once in a blue moon) treat of an all-in family supper.

I played the pencil game with Sahtik and Roozahna.

At eight p.m. I escorted them to Underground.

Steady bluish effulgence of the full-moon flooded all the world delineating finely our shadows sliding along the side-walk.

Now, I'm setting off after water.

Be the night as good as this day was.

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