All the measures of the Government are directed to the purpose of

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the streets of New York slick and shimmering under the pale glow of street lamps. The city looked like it had been polished by grief — every windowpane gleaming, every reflection a mirror of weariness. From a narrow alley, the smell of smoke, coffee, and wet asphalt hung in the air, and somewhere, a saxophone wailed — low, lonely, and blue.

Host: In a dim café, two figures sat near the back, shadows bent toward each other like the beginning of an argument. Jack’s coat was still damp, his hands rough from years of hard work and restless thought. Across from him, Jeeny cradled a chipped ceramic cup, her brown eyes catching every flicker of light like they were holding it hostage.

Host: Above the counter, an old portrait of William Henry Harrison watched them in silence, his face frozen in the stern certainty of another century.

Jeeny: “He once said, ‘All the measures of the Government are directed to the purpose of making the rich richer and the poor poorer.’ You think that was true only then, Jack — or is it still true now?”

Jack: “It’s always been true,” he said, his voice low, husky, each word like gravel being crushed. “Governments change their flags, their faces, their slogans — but the machine stays the same. It feeds the top and grinds the rest.”

Jeeny: “You talk like a man who’s given up on the idea of justice.”

Jack: “Not justice, Jeeny — just on the illusion that it lives in politics. Look around. Lobbyists, corporations, billionaires — they’re the real cabinet. Harrison saw it even then — the farmers ruined by tariffs, the workers under wages too thin to breathe on. The names change, but the pattern doesn’t.”

Host: The light above them flickered, as if agreeing. The rain outside began again, gently this time — a soft percussion like the heartbeat of something ancient and tired.

Jeeny: “You make it sound so inevitable — like there’s no way out. But if it’s all rigged, why did people like Harrison, or Lincoln, or Roosevelt even try? They didn’t have to say those things. They could have just played along.”

Jack: “Because even the smartest gears sometimes feel the teeth of the machine grinding them down. Harrison was no revolutionary — he was a general, a president, a man of the system. But maybe even he saw the rot and couldn’t keep quiet. That’s the cruel thing about truth — even those who benefit from the system sometimes can’t stomach it.”

Jeeny: “Then why don’t we listen when they tell us? Why do we keep building the same walls that divide us?”

Jack: “Because hope is addictive, Jeeny. People need to believe they can climb the wall someday. If they didn’t, the whole structure would collapse overnight. The dream of mobility is the only thing keeping the ladder standing.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers tightened around her cup. The steam from it rose, twisting like a spirit that didn’t want to leave. She stared at him, her voice trembling but fierce.

Jeeny: “That’s a cynical way to protect the ladder, Jack. Maybe the ladder’s supposed to fall. Maybe that’s the only way everyone learns to build something new — together. Harrison said those words almost two centuries ago, and they still sting because we haven’t had the courage to change the blueprint.”

Jack: “Blueprints are just dreams until someone funds them. You think the rich will let that happen? The ones who write the laws, own the banks, fund the campaigns? They’ll give you just enough reform to make you grateful, then take it back when you’re not looking.”

Jeeny: “But they can’t own what we refuse to sell. Every movement started that way — with people saying no. Farmers during the Populist Revolt, miners in the coal strikes, mothers in the bread lines. Every time the system tightened, someone pushed back.”

Host: The rain had turned into a steady rhythm, a kind of music that filled the pauses between their words. Jack’s eyes softened, his gaze drifting toward the window, where a homeless man huddled under a soaked blanket. His hand twitched — as if he wanted to help, but didn’t know how.

Jack: “And what did it change, Jeeny? The names on the checks, the symbols on the bills. The poor are still poor, the rich are still building empires out of our exhaustion. The only thing that changes is the style of their smile.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. Things change, slowly, painfully, but they do. Children work fewer hours now. Women can vote. Black men aren’t sold as property. Every one of those changes started with someone who refused to believe it was all futile.”

Jack: “And yet, we’re still divided, still hungry, still fighting for scraps under the same flag. You call that progress?”

Jeeny: “I call it proof that the human spirit doesn’t quit. Even when it’s beaten, it bleeds, but it keeps fighting. You can’t measure justice in decades, Jack. Maybe not even in centuries. But every voice that speaks like Harrison’s — every whisper that dares to call out the machine — keeps the flame alive.”

Host: The café door creaked open, a gust of wind carrying the smell of wet earth. The bartender turned up the radio, and a faint news report drifted through the room — something about a new tax loophole for the wealthy, something about budget cuts to social aid. Jack and Jeeny both listened, neither speaking, the truth of the quote echoing between them more clearly than any argument could.

Jack: “You hear that? Same story, different actors.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’re the audience who finally stands up.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, electric. Jack’s eyes met hers — something like respect, something like regret. Outside, the city glowed through the rain, a cathedral of glass built on dreams and debt.

Jack: “You think one voice can still matter, in a world like this?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever has.”

Host: For a long moment, neither moved. Then Jack nodded, slow, deliberate, as though something in him had yielded — not in defeat, but in recognition. He pulled a few crumpled bills from his pocket, left them on the table, and rose.

Host: Jeeny watched him go, her eyes following the outline of a man who believed in nothing — but had just been reminded what belief felt like.

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped. The clouds were parting, letting a thin shaft of moonlight fall across the portrait of Harrison on the wall. For a second, his painted face seemed to glow, as though smiling, not at the powerful, but at the ordinary souls still arguing in the dark — still trying to make the world remember.