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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January 29.

In dreams

... being on a visit to Africa I saw half-naked brawny natives adorned with feather sprays and had a close look at a newly-born elephant with its scrotum-like skin with sparse sticky hairs and had a sex with some black beauty fortunately with no pollution thanks to Nature ...

Two attacks in the morning, starting at 9 a.m., then I sat at the Club till noon.

Nowadays, with all the other doors in the Editorial House locked, the most persistent visitors eventually drop into the Renderers'.

Today it was a major wanting urgently to see Boss and an aged maniacal scribbler with some "material" folded up in an old newspaper.

Araic came and inquired what I was scribbling all the time.

After my explanation he asked if he could read the first dozen pages of my rendering of Azimov.

Lenic dropped in on his way home from the upper town where he stays for nights at his father-in-law's.

He put his water canister by the door, made a phone call and then left.

At lunch my mother-in-law just so gently broke the news that the pram that I use to bring water with was taken away.

The dump heap where I had exhumed it from was, actually, its storing place and they had never intended to throw the pram away.

<!-- Well, by the Roman Law codes their claim is grounded firmly enough. Dura lex, sed lex.-->

Till six p.m. I was assembling another pullcart out of two small plastic wheels and remnants of one more pram exhumed from the same realm of dust in Underground.

The project was completed but not tried in the field.

Yoga.
Supper.

I saw all of the family to Underground. For the third time today.

No James Joyce this day.

The water-walk's ahead.
Let's check the new cart.

Wishes of good night to all, naturally.

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