December 9
Philosophy also can be an in-bed activity.
Waving away my curt declaring her an excellent lover, she demanded a more deliberate definition.
I tried and—lo!—
And then I had a blasphemous dream where
...in the dark of the open-air park cinema where I used to go as a boy I met alive V. I. Lenin and slapped him on his belly with a stick, twice...
In the morning I hit the tail of a water queue. One hour waiting to get two pails.
When I came to the Editorial House the same hugely indifferent padlock hung on the front door. I returned home and took the kids for a walk. However, on our way to the Central Park I saw the Editorial House door was open. We double backed home again.
At the work place I rendered one article. Then Wagrum told me about the three Armenians (one female) of the Karin-Tak village caught in an ambush and butchered with knives.
(...even possession of sophisticated firearms cannot civilize the brute of Man...)
With the gas being supplied (turning it off, they leave the town of Shushi up in the hills without the heating too), the air in the town turned breathable again. A week ago all these streets were drawning in the smarting bluish haze of smoke from the innumerable woodburner pipes stuck out from each and every window and hole in basements' walls.
At home half a page from ULYSSES.
Instead of yoga I tried to cut off the bottom of a milk bottle and convert it into an oil lamp chimney. The fragile spare part of our lamp crashed one day ago when in the Underground they were chasing an arrogant rat away.
The project turned out to be a hard nut to crack, I only spoiled two milk bottles at no avail. It's just a 'no go'. I'd better think of something else.
It's ten past nine pm. All are in bed; the candle next to my blocknote is almost burnt up.
Good night to all, be they of wealth or misery.
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