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
“In the endless winter, the bracelets wrapped around the wrists...” Beyond the Barguzinsky tract, time froze in “zero transportation.” Confession of a watchman of an abandoned dacha, where reality disintegrates along the lines of Malevich, and only the warmth of freshly chopped firewood can save
New essays, notes, and updates are easiest to read on Telegram
