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:

December 4.

The local radio announced thirteen missiles hit the town tonight.
I can neither back nor refute the dope 'cause I was asleep and heard nothing.

Before the war some of Underground compartments were a night bar basement premises. The owner had even installed a mighty electrical oven there.

Today in the morning my mother-in-law in a group of other shelterers baked bread in that oven.

Then I was sent to Carina and Orliana with their families' bread shares.

At noon the electricity was cut off.

It's cold in the house. It's cold in Underground.
Ahshaut began to cough. Sahtik's troubled.

After the lunch Roozahna's aunt came to take her to her grandparents' place.

From Underground I brought home our old heater in need of repair. I fixed it but couldn't check up – no live mains around.

Yoga.
Supper.
Water bringing.

When it got dark in the room I made a Ukrainian folk device – plaushquah to do for the lighting.

You pour some vegetable oil in a saucer and put a wicker of tightly twisted cotton wool ascending the saucer brim from the oil pool in the middle.
The upper tip of the wicker burns with a sooty flame.

It was my mother-in-law's turn to get her goat.
Vegetable oil running to waste!

Yet, not a sound from her tightened lips.

It's ten past nine p.m.
Starry night outdoors.

Good night, by the way.

стрелка вверхвверх-скок