Changes in the parting words are to no avail: 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 to give an informed answer to his unlearned 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.
They were having their supper. A single shell burst shooed them away. They fled leaving the cups of tea filled just a moment before to steam away the tailing whiffs from the untouched beverage.
Nothing could convince Sahtik to finish the supper first. May be, 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 Underground, I'll go for water.
Then, finally, will come the time for those worn-out words of the powerless conjuration: