автограф
     пускай с моею мордою
   печатных книжек нет,
  вот эта подпись гордая
есть мой автопортрет

Stepanakert
                   Saga

:авторский
сайт
графомана

рукописи не горят!.. ...в интернете ...   

head header
    days:

January 30.

What does a man need for an all-round happiness?

Just a couple of wheels for a handcart.

That yesterday's project turned out a disgraceful failure.

In the morning I entered the Club a quarter of an hour later because I was helping the porter (alias security guard) to fix up the entrance door.

Vibrations from close explosions squeezed it out of order. Now it functions OK.

The first to visit the Renderers' today was Lenic returning home to the downhill town with two canisters of water and his mom.

He introduced us to each other. Her name's Elena.

Yet their visit was fairly short – the telephone doesn't work again.

I idled about with the Azimov's padded masterpiece.

Araic came. Then Alia.

At eleven a pair of minor bosses popped up and promptly decided to close the hangout. I had only to pack off.

Alia was going in my direction to look something up in the MAYAC Shop.

On the way urbanely small-talked to her about water-bringing (when passing by Three Taps).

The lunch was somewhat superfluous.

One page from ULYSSES.

During Ahshaut's day nap there occurred two missile attacks. I said to him "there-there" and "all's OK." and he slept off again.

Sahtik and Roozahna at once shot off and out of the room to lean against the yard walls for a shelter.

I puzzled out an oillamp going by Lenic's instructions. It is furnished with a rotating mini-spindle (made of a hair pin) that propels the wick up and down.

At the moment the project lacks only a chimney. Glassblowing is beyond my scope.

I'm out of sorts today – having a fever that at times swells up to a delightful feeling of marrow-simmer inside my bones.

The state brought to mind a line of mine from the time past. The line runs as follows:

even in dying there is a pleasure"
Though the myness of the line is rather dubious. With multitudinous myriads of human beings that were and are and will be on this world you never can tell for sure whose thoughts you are munching at any given moment.

The only bitter note in this blissful biting the dust is the throaty—dry and suffocating—cough.

Last time that I felt this way was full three years ago during my pre-wedding good-bye trip to the Ukraine.

At yoga today I felt as if submerged in a warm soothing bath. However the joints' flexibility kept falling short of their normal capacity.

In the water queue they were bemoaning a girl of nine and her father, a man in his prime, killed by a shell hitting their house.

Some other people got wounded at the explosion too, poor things.

In the afternoon my mother-in-law called me out to fetch two pails of water. She somehow managed to jump the queue at the nearby street water-hose.

On my way I caught myself drooling over a kid tricycle kicking about in another one's yard. Three sturdy wheels!

In the evening after kneading dough the mother-in-law left for Underground to join the rest of our family while the dough was getting ready.

An hour later a stout errand boy from Twin Bakeries brought to our place a sizable portion of dough sent by his master as he promised to my mother-in-law a week ago.

I had to go over to Underground to inform on this overproduction crises.

Right now Sahtik has arrived home together with her mom to handle the problem.

High time for me to end this entry.

Good night.

стрелка вверхвверх-скок