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



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

head header

February 3.

An extraordinary calm day—not a single blast.

The Underground people wonder if they have run out of rockets up there.

One more duck cooked by the underground media: this Republic got recognized by Czech-Slovakia.

At the Main Post they've put up a letter-box – one for all the letterwriters of the town. The correspondence to be shipped by helicopters.

I definitely suspect it would be a one-way communication. But Sahtik, who was terribly ill all the day, had, nevertheless written a letter to my sister in the Ukraine.

In the morning I attended the Club.

Araic tried to explain to me some elementary features of Arab lettering.

Rita (under influence from the novel by Lawrence) pitied there were no foresters here.

After lunch, making an excuse of my illness, I allowed myself to have a nap in bed.

One page from ULYSSES.
No Yoga.

A family supper around one candle. It looked like a mellowly lit Dickensian affair.

I gave Sahtik free hand in convincing me that the water-walk was not necessary today.

Her argumentation was supported by the fifth column – a sloth feeling down my chest.

In Underground, under the close supervision from my mother-in-law, I replaced Sahtik-and-Ahshaut's bending bed with a wooden door I brought from the neighboring rundown apartment block.

The door put horizontally upon block-stones became a sturdy support for a rusty iron bedstead.

The town idiot, Zazé girl, was wounded two days ago; yesterday an old woman was torn apart by an explosion right in front of her house. Her sister (also an oldie) having no phedayee PHEDAYEE —
     (Armenian borrowing from Greek) "freedom fighter".
relative cannot find boards to order a coffin.

To wind up this news digest I, full of hope and optimism, say
'Good night.'

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