in the crawlspace between purpose and void
we cultivate our elegant despair

(Onegin's ghost plays cards with Pechorin
while Stavrogin watches, lips curled—
their reflections fade in smartphone screens)

we are masters of the peripheral game:
too clever for faith
too weary for rebellion
too proud for contentment

our fathers built empires of steel and steam
we build empires of digital vapor
and ironic distance

in Saint Petersburg drawing rooms
we discussed the revolution
in Manhattan coffee shops
we discuss the simulation

the same poisoned intelligence
the same paralysis of possibility

we roll cigarettes with pages torn from
manifestos we never quite believed in
each exhale carries the smoke of
abandoned causes

between Instagram stories
we contemplate the void
(but make it aesthetic)

our grandfathers knew how to die for something
our fathers knew how to live for something
we know only how to observe—
with perfect wit
with cutting insight
with endless commentary

in the mirror: a curator of experiences
never quite experienced

time flows around us like water
around a perfectly useless stone

we are the children of Bazarov
born too late for nihilism
too early for whatever comes next
suspended in the amber
of our own awareness

this is how the world ends:
not with Pechorin's duel
but with a carefully crafted tweet
about the futility of duels

(sent from our deathbeds
which we'll review on Yelp—
three stars for existential comfort
two for authenticity)