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 13.

Till noon I was still running in the aftermath of my participation in the rescuing of ungrateful delicatessen and then a pill from Sahtik fixed me up.

At the work place I carried on diligent reading of the BHAGAVAT-GITA.

After lunch Carina came with her children and presented us with two intact factory-produced candles – a timely and invaluable gift.

She took Ruth over to her place.

I got down to the ULYSSES translation but then Sat took off her earrings in a knocking down hint that today I'd better cut out roaming the city of Dublin.

However, Chief shortened our version of the Simplest Game by suddenly waking up.

At somewhat to eight p.m. boom of a shell-burst put an end to the week-long lull in the bombardments.

We got over to the Underground already filled with flickering candle and match lights, with troubled calls of rushing in people burdened with mattresses and pillows.

I suppered alone. (Earlier in the day Orliana sent us a pound of cheese and half-dozen eggs by a relative who failed to determine her kinship degree and had no time to muster for me the aunts and grandfolks responsible for the affinity.)

To dodge endless hanging on in a common water queue I ascended to the hillfoot part of Krkjan. The higher hillsides dinned with agitated fire-exchange. Random bullets kept whistling overhead though too high.

At the spring there was only one old man on his haunches behind a low stone hedge. The intrepid moonlight shimmered in his gray hair and spectacles and in the water jet gushing from the pipe into his pail.

When in Krkjan do as Krkjanese do. I squatted next to him.

On my way back along the Uzbegstan Street two bullets were shot at me personally. Those sharp-shooters must have what-you'd-call-them devices for night vision.

I went over to the lee side of the street.

It's a quarter past ten p.m.

Good night to all the co-existors in this Maya, be they close or remote.

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