February 7
No changes to the parting words work no wonders, be it "Good night" or "So long", the result is the same – the words don't have the power to prevent shelling in the dead of night.
At the Club the veteran porter, Shamir, asked me, as a man of learning, to give an informed answer to his, uneducated folk's, question, 'How will this mess end?'
I, to our mutually felt disappointment, had no answer.
Arcadic visited the Renderers' to ask if Lenic kept popping up.
The attack during the lunchtime left me alone at our family dinner table.
Three hours of mending the handcart.
One page from Joyce.
I was finishing Yoga.
They started having supper. A random shell burst shooed them away. They fled leaving the tea filled just a moment before to steam away the tailing whiffs from the untouched cups.
Nothing could convince Sahtik to finish the supper first. Maybe, she's right too.
Then I finished my yoga and now—while my supper is being warmed up—I scribble these notes.
After having my supper and paying the 'end-of-day' visit to the Underground, I'll go for water.
Then, finally, will come the time for those worn-out words of the powerless conjuration — "Good night".
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