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 10.

A bombardment in the morning kept the family in Underground till 11 a.m.

Meanwhile, I went to the Club twice to find each time its door locked.

The day was calm.

They say there were two missiles that failed to explode. Legends on the defective ammunition ran as "Made in the USSR" with manufacture date from the end of the previous month. End of month production in the USSR was always a downright waste, but what a wondrous swiftness in the missiles shipment!

According to rumors circulating in Underground, the town is inundated with spies. They say there is a list of at least sixty traitors signaling for the enemy's artillery.

Two pages from Joyce translated.

At three p.m., Sahtik came home from Underground. We also locked the door.

For a few days the Soviet Army helicopters touch down once a day among the barracks of the local garrison to evacuate some mysterious boxes. Their arrival is a clear-cut indication that there should be no shelling for at least half an hour.

Without lingering too long at petting, we went on to the essentials.

She, as usual, was supremely perfect; I just did my level best but only functionally, lacking the all-erasing eagerness.

<!-- To get enraptured by this Game in earnest, one should be innocent enough—not spoiled by reading of the BHAGAVBAT-GITA and the like stuff. Or else, you simply should be young enough.-->

Nevertheless, I duly acted my part in the Game.

Yoga as scheduled.
Supper.

Now, all are gone over to Underground. Only the dough—brimming up in the large bowl—and I am staying here.

It's half-past-eight p.m. I am going out for the water-walk.

Distant noise of the battle at Malu-Balu, an Azeri village in the eastern suburb hills mingles with close bangs of shells exploding in the town every other minute.

"So long" combined with "Good night".

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