But thankfully, my first album, 'Wide Screen,' was sort of a

Host: The record store was nearly empty — a small, dim corner of the old city, its walls lined with fading vinyl covers that smelled of dust, time, and memory. Outside, the rain fell in long, deliberate lines, the kind that makes the world sound half asleep.

Inside, neon light flickered faintly against posters of forgotten artists, their faces frozen in the glory of decades past. The turntable spun quietly behind the counter, playing a song that no one seemed to know anymore — a soft, haunting melody that lingered like nostalgia itself.

Jack sat on an old stool, elbows on his knees, flipping through a stack of worn records. Jeeny stood beside him, holding a coffee cup, the steam curling like smoke between them.

Jeeny: “You ever heard of Rupert Holmes?”

Jack: “The ‘Escape’ guy? ‘If you like Pina Coladas’?”

Jeeny: “Yeah, but before that. He once said something about his first album — ‘Wide Screen’ — that it was a critics’ darling, but no one bought it. Only ten thousand copies made. He said, ‘I wasn’t even in the running for failure.’”

Host: Jack looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching with quiet amusement.

Jack: “That’s the kind of failure I can respect.”

Jeeny: “What do you mean?”

Jack: “At least it’s honest. He didn’t pretend the world owed him anything. He made something, people loved it — but love doesn’t always sell. That’s art in a nutshell.”

Host: The needle on the record hit a scratch, repeating a soft, stuttering loop. A faint hum filled the air — the sound of time rewinding.

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that make you sad? To put your heart into something beautiful and watch it disappear into silence?”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. It makes me human. Failure’s the one thing that reminds us we’re not gods. It keeps us from thinking our worth depends on applause.”

Host: The light outside dimmed further, and a passing car sent ripples of reflection across the window. Jeeny sipped her coffee, eyes thoughtful.

Jeeny: “I think it’s tragic, though. We live in a world that celebrates noise over depth. People want a hit, not a heart. And when something honest doesn’t sell, we call it failure — but it’s not. It’s just that no one was ready to listen.”

Jack: “That’s romantic. But come on — art’s not sacred, it’s a gamble. You make a song, a painting, a book — and the world flips a coin. Heads, you’re a genius. Tails, you’re forgotten.”

Jeeny: “Then why do it at all, Jack? If the world’s that indifferent?”

Jack: “Because you don’t do it for the world. You do it because something inside you won’t shut up until you do.”

Host: The words hung heavy, sharp, like the smell of rain through an open door. A faint smile ghosted across Jeeny’s lips.

Jeeny: “Then maybe Rupert Holmes didn’t fail at all. Maybe those ten thousand copies meant more than ten million could have. Maybe the right people found it — the ones who really listened.”

Jack: “Or maybe that’s just how we comfort ourselves after the world ignores us.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that’s how we survive it.”

Host: The rain drummed harder against the windows, a rhythmic counterpoint to the quiet record hum. Jack stood and moved toward the shelves, running his fingers along the cracked spines of old albums — Nina Simone, Leonard Cohen, Nick Drake. Names that once lived in shadows before the world remembered to adore them.

Jack: “Nick Drake died before his music ever hit anyone’s radar. He recorded three albums, sold barely anything. Now, every hipster in a coffee shop plays ‘Pink Moon’ like it’s gospel. You think he’d be happy about that? He’s not here to see it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not the point. Maybe the art itself outlives the ego that made it. It doesn’t matter who’s here to see it — it matters that it exists. That it spoke something true.”

Host: Jack turned, his grey eyes softening with something like respect — or exhaustion.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That truth has a longer shelf life than fame.”

Jeeny: “Of course. Look at Emily Dickinson. Hardly published while she lived. Or Van Gogh, who sold one painting in his lifetime. Now their words, their colors, their voices echo through centuries. Maybe obscurity is just the cocoon before the immortality.”

Host: A silence followed — not cold, but thick with meaning. The song on the turntable shifted to the next track, a tender piano note rising like a sigh. Jack’s hand hovered over the album bin, then dropped.

Jack: “But what if you’re not Van Gogh or Dickinson? What if you’re just another voice that fades before anyone cares?”

Jeeny: “Then you lived. You felt. You created something. Isn’t that the whole point? To have touched the fire, even for a second?”

Host: Her eyes gleamed with quiet conviction. Jack’s jaw tightened, as if holding back something he wanted to believe.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But the world isn’t kind to people who make art from their soul. You give too much, and it gives you silence in return.”

Jeeny: “Maybe silence is the reward. Maybe that’s where the real audience listens — not the crowd, but the stillness that remains when the applause fades. That’s where truth lives.”

Host: The lights flickered again. Outside, the rain eased, leaving behind a soft, reflective calm. The street shimmered with puddles catching the glow of passing headlights.

Jack: “You know… when I was younger, I wrote music. Nothing fancy, just small stuff — chords, verses. Sent a demo once. Got rejected with a form letter. I remember thinking, I guess I’m not cut out for it. So I stopped. I let the silence win.”

Jeeny: “But did the silence really win, Jack? You’re still here, talking about it. You still remember. That means a part of it never died.”

Host: Jack exhaled, the breath heavy, carrying years of old weight. The record reached its final groove, looping endlessly with a faint, rhythmic hiss.

Jack: “You think failure is an illusion, huh?”

Jeeny: “I think failure is just a doorway — the one that leads you back to why you started. Rupert Holmes didn’t fail. He just learned that being loved doesn’t always mean being bought.”

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe failure only counts when you stop creating.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The artist’s real tragedy isn’t that no one listens — it’s when he stops singing.”

Host: A smile broke across Jack’s face, small but real — like a shadow deciding to let in a little light. He reached for one of the records, the cover torn at the edges but still proud, still whole.

Jack: “You think this store’ll be here in ten years?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But the music will.”

Host: The record player started again — a soft melody, the kind that aches with quiet truth. Jeeny leaned against the counter, and Jack took a seat beside her, the two of them listening in stillness.

Outside, the rain stopped completely. The street glistened beneath a newborn moon, its light cutting through the fog like a promise.

Host: And for a moment, surrounded by forgotten albums and the ghosts of unsold songs, they both understood what Rupert Holmes meant — that sometimes, to not even be “in the running for failure” is its own strange kind of grace.

The music rose, tender and alive, and the scene faded — not into silence, but into something far rarer.
A quiet, unbought kind of peace.