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 25.

It's flaking; it's snowing...

One massive hail of the GRAD missiles in the morning, followed up with a desultory shelling by singles.

But, after the first attack, my family was in Underground, and I at the Club.

All the same over and over again: jiggling walls and quaking vinyl sheets in the windows of the Renderers' with the usual diuretic effect afterwards.

("Pissing when scared, ain't you?" had been a cod-saying among my classmates at the high school. Many a truth is said in jest. Close explosions do tell a number on my bladder.)

At eleven a.m. Lenic dropped in on his way to the downhill town dragging along things from his flat to his father-in-law's. And he had decided to leave his draft coat of arms in the Renderers' room: the competition jury chairman was too busy for an appointment.

Half-an-hour later Rita came in. That big shot of an Arcadic's pal pronounced the papers she had provided not valid enough to give her an evacuation pass-bill.

There were explosions outdoors so she lingered until 12 o'clock to go out together with me. I saw her to the crossing at the Theater.

Then, I was engaged in shipping of cutlery and the warmed-up dinner to Underground.

After lunch, one page from Joyce.

By the way, in the previous night's dream, I was reading a page from ARABIAN NIGHTS.

The text just as in this here reality was printed in Armenian. It was one of the erotic fairy-tales wherein the protagonist emphatically depicts his sensations at the point of reaching orgasm by using a purely Joycean antic—coining up a word of four doubled Armenian"Ձ"[dz].

It looked something like this: 'And then I felt ՁձՁձՁձՁձ'

After that page from ULYSSES I—a weak and sinful being—had a nap.

Getting up, I cooked a supper of unpeeled boiled potatoes, boiled a kettle of water, and took all that over to Underground.

Yoga.
Supper.

The water-walk's ahead.

Thanks to the outflux of the townsfolk, there are no constant queues at the most inconvenient water-heads (the "Suicide's Spring" with its 65 ice-coated steep steps is one of the kind).

The pawn-queue at Three Taps was scrapped and replaced with alive one. Which is much shorter.

To make the long story short –
Good night.

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