автограф
     пускай с моею мордою
   печатных книжек нет,
  вот эта подпись гордая
есть мой автопортрет

Stepanakert
                   Saga

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    days:

February 19.

By Sahtik's calculations, three years ago this night we married.

So, it was our wedding night celebration lit by the full moon light flooding in through the three immensely wide windows to mingle with the glimmer of a flickering candle.

Having a loose tooth dangling all over your mouth curbs an over-ardent voluptuousness all right, and yet it was a good night.

And with her gorgeous bottom and mature bosom contrasting to her maidenish arms and incredulously tiny hands Sahtik does look lovely when naked.

In the morning nobody attended the Club, obviously kept away by the consecutive GRAD volleys detonation.

<!-- Some mighty thing this GRAD is, faith, a real masterpiece of human genius.-->

This time I didn't switch on chanting of the Maha-Mantra. My mind got stuck in the chewing gum of Azimov's novel while the walls leaped from the near-by explosions and the pane glasses were breaking up and coming down to the floor with dismal high-pitched tinkle.

Rendering amidst explosions doesn't mean braveness; I do it just because I have nothing else to do.

The Club's lavatory window was also smashed, however, the whitely icicled (or rather mildew crusted) spiders were still hanging from the ceiling.

Leaving at noon I observed a hillock of masonry stones in the place of the nearby TV Studio Block swept away while I was sitting in the Club.

The Grad bursts leave a burned rubber stink in the air.

Up-till-now unchecked fires are burning in town with the missile attacks repeating themselves over and over again.

After the lonesome lunch, one page from Joyce.

Then, I took up reading of Arab Nights in Armenian to tone up my command of the language.

Yoga.
Supper.

A water-walk's ahead. (Just for the fitness' sake; there is no actual need of water in the household now.)

Good night.

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