Yester night in the middle of that long and winding road of waterbringing I viewed a splendid wartime fireworks.
Against the background of the full moon floating in the starry skies—three languid fireballs
of yellowish-tailed AlazansALAZAN —
a missile contrivance for destroying hailstorm clouds which was easily converted into artillery weapon in the initial stages of the Karabakh war 1991-1994. shimmered in their flight among the red-lit sequences of bullets dashing in hurried stitches across the missiles' trajectory in vain tries to make them burst in the air.
There also was some shelling in the night. Though I can't tell how much of it.
Yesterday in my talk with Samvel, the head of the pipeline construction firm, he was looking at me from the eyes of Valyo, a bricklayer from that same firm.
While marshaling my arguments I couldn't get rid of the thought that he had not only a similar color but also, most strangely, the very same expression in his optics.
Today a nineteen-year-old girl was killed by a missile hitting their flat; her mother and a younger sister got heavily wounded.
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In the morning I spent about two hours in the empty Club.
After lunch one page from ULYSSES.
Then I taught Roozahna on her request to play "The Sea Battle".
After today's yoga I had a rare and delightful feeling of well oiled joints and cartilages in my lower extremities.
Sahtik and the kids went over to Underground.
The mother-in-law stayed to bake bread.
I have already brought water from the nearby Three Taps. No one there. Every fifteen-twenty minutes missiles are coming in twos or threes to hit the town with crashing bangs.
It is cloudy today no fanciful views.
The mother-in-law finished baking and I accompanied her to Underground's entrance.
At home I warmed up half a bucket of water and washed up all the parts of mine within my reach.
It's high time (11 p.m.) to say –