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 14.

They say the local radio reported the town was hit with well over thirty missiles tonight.
I heard nothing watching video dreams in my sleep:

...a thug with bald head and thick whiskers gets cornered by a squad of plainclothes agents and he runs round and round and round their cars gleaming listlessly in the dark of night and shoots at them desperately with a hail of notably slow bullets from his handgun lacking power to pierce the motionless disdain of his hunters and eventually they fell and pinion him face down on the ground and one of the hunters straddles on his back and forces the barrel of his pistol into the chase's mouth and shoots making me to turn away from the ugly scene and to drift on in the flow of the next dreamstream where I meet Samvel who bossed over the gas pipeline constructing firm in which I worked before the war but everything changes with the time and in this dream he is rigged out as a spic and span guerrilla commander and I shamelessly bum of him concrete slabs for our Site but his answer was suspended till a further episode in the serial...

It was a foreshadowing dream because today during my wake hours I met and saluted three of my former colleagues from that firm: Silva, Ararat and Razmic, respectively.

In the morning Ahshaut on his way home from Underground called out "papa!" when passing hand in hand with Sahtik under the three windows of our one-but-spacey-room flat.

O, Krishna, I'm still too weak to keep indifferent to all the calls from this here Maya.

Till noon I was at my work place.

Today Alia, the typist, kept to strictly practical items – tips and tricks you have to master to survive in this here situation.

Rita, the Secretary, was tuned to higher themes. She tried to bring it across to me that only nuts believe in God or else some philosophers who are no better crackpots.

Then Lenic came and we swapped our impressions: his visual ones—the yellow flashes of the canons bombarding us from the hills—for my auditive ones—zipping wheeze of bullets in Krkjan.

In the end he advised me to find a safer place to take water from.

After lunch I picked up ULYSSES. The output was less than a page.

When Ahshaut got up after his day nap I repaired his second-hand cot which I had brought from Carina's. It had been missing one of its side gratings.

To fix it I made a mesh along the side using the line-rope bought for the purpose from Department Store. Ahshaut got wildly delighted with the innovation.

In the pencil game Sahtik simply whipped me.
Then they went over to the Underground.

Yoga.
Supper.

Then I washed up in the tub the most stinking parts of mine.

When I visited my family in Underground all were in bed—to keep warm—and already sleeping.

I'm back to our one-but-spacey-room flat and I am not alone—there is a distinct frisking of rats in our kitchen-aka-hall.

Deep in each of their hearts there dwells a particle of the Parathma. These individual particles, outstationed in each and every living creature, compose the mutual Parathma Omniscient Monitor. One and the same Parathma for all of us seeing all and viewing everything from all perspectives because Parathma watches, say, a murder simultaneously from inside both the killer's and his victim's heart.

<!-- A truly unprejudiced perspective.-->

Good night to all the Parathma fellows.

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