
We, Children of the Galaxy
What if Ulan-Ude grew up on the site of a starship crash? Childhood memories, power-grid diagrams, and beloved books help the narrator see his hometown as the trace of a cosmic catastrophe
This is where my father, Yuri Nevsky, speaks. His stories come from another time, yet they run through me like the same underground river. He shapes life into words; I shape it into cities, interfaces, and a path of my own. Between us lie years, different temperaments, and separate roads. Yet the voice is one — Nevsky, passed from one generation to the next


What if Ulan-Ude grew up on the site of a starship crash? Childhood memories, power-grid diagrams, and beloved books help the narrator see his hometown as the trace of a cosmic catastrophe

After a day in the workshop, the narrator walks through wintry Ulan-Ude in search of a little bottle. His nocturnal odyssey unfolds in glowing little shops amid the cold and drifting snow

An artist rides out for supplies for an exhibition, admires the city, and loses his bicycle chain. An ordinary trip between the shop and the workshop turns out to be full of anxieties, temptations, and small victories

Two strangers help each other run across a road and get talking. Between their stories of Moscow, Gusinoozyorsk, work, and family, an unexpected closeness develops

Somewhere in a beautiful, faraway country lives the narrator’s mental double: an old house, vineyards, a beloved woman. This imagined life beckons with its ease and its freedom from everyday worries

An appeal to walk more becomes an occasion to remember the roads, people and habits of one’s country. Observations and digressions come together in a conversation about a life that is hard to measure in useful advice

The artist Vladimir Nikolayevich paints Baikal, where he has never been, from a friend’s stories and photographs. Generous strokes, an enormous fish, and recognising yourself on someone else’s canvas

On the road to Monakhovo, a weary traveler finds an abandoned grave. Amid the forest and the hum of mosquitoes, a chance stop sets him thinking about the man who remained here forever
@nevsky_alexander
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