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 5.

... walking along a completely dark road I encountered a dozen of Afro-Africans discernible only by scanty gleaming of their skin against the solid pitch-black background and one of them was advancing like a panther on his fours with another one riding on his back and then their cold coal faces showed up in a sudden flood of light coming through the panes in our hall-aka-kitchen door and for the second time in my dreams I beheld the miraculous view of a lighted electrical bulb and the TV-set got alive letting out a flow of richly colored pictures and I called Sahtik by name and she awoke unable to believe in the reality of what was happening and holding back happy tears and this very moment ...

... crashing din of explosions filled the town.

Sahtik jolted up, pulled on her clothes and shot off to Underground.

It was three in the morning. Ahshaut—left over—slept on.

I spent the morning at the Club. Araic came and left. We had no chat. It's too cold even for a small talk.

Why did I get ill? Because of the conditions? OK, may be.

Still, to fall ill in any sort of conditions there must be a "go-ahead" given to an illness by my subconscious.

Why did it give it?

A few days ago while poking about at Underground's dump (the realm of dust) in search of some wheels for a handcart, I discovered someone's half-empty box of matches and took it.

Actually, I didn't need it, but I took it. That's why. Don't take bad nickels, sirrah.

<!-- Freud is right: in time of a crisis, man starts nit-pickingly find faults with himself.-->

I slept after lunch. (A sin for a Brahman.)

One page.
Supper.
A game of backgammon with Sahtik.

Now, I have only to see them to Underground and then – out for the water.

So, here is one more –
Good night.

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