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

Stepanakert
                   Saga

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December 11.

Tonight in my flashback dreams not of lions was dreaming I but of

...night trains and unloyal friends...

In my wake hours, till noon, I was—poetically—converting swords into plowshares yet—practically—it looked like one more peasant guy fumbling with the baling wire (the core string in the barber wire coils left behind by the pulled out Red Army troops) about the CPSU District Committee Block.

I was not the first in the undertaking, people had been collecting the wire for at least a couple of weeks. However, if your main interest is not the barbs you can still find a considerable amount of scrap wire there.

<!-- Look out! The damn thing is pricky!-->

I stripped a length of bale wire free of barbs and coiled it into a few sizable balls to be taken to our Site.

After lunch I went out and bought a big lamp-shade of matte glass (30 monets) from Department Store.

Then till dark I was consorting the shade with the gas torch made yesterday.

Right now the burning gas hisses inside the bellshaped shade fixed on the bookcase.

However, the light from this clapped up gassier is too flickery that's why I opted to write today's entry by the candle.

When a candle is burnt up we scrape together the remnants of its molten paraffin to mold them into a new—much smaller—candle.
Shrinking reproduction.

Yoga.
Supper.
A pencil game with Sahtik and Roozahna.

Now the mother-in-law is preparing things for baking bread.

It's high time for me to get away from the table and go out after water.

Good night to the wide world with its diverse inhabitants.

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