Each of us have things and thoughts and descriptions of an

Host: The evening sky burned with an almost unreal cobalt blue, deepening toward violet where the sun had just disappeared. The ocean below mirrored it — restless, luminous — a living thing. The world felt both ancient and impossibly modern: waves still breaking like they did a thousand years ago, while overhead, satellites winked like metallic gods.

On a cliff above that restless edge of sea and sky, Jack sat cross-legged beside a weathered telescope, its metal body dull with salt and time. The faint glow of his phone screen lit his face — that cold modern light of infinite access.

A few steps behind him, Jeeny leaned against the hood of an old pickup truck, her hair whipped by the wind, her eyes bright with wonder. The stars were beginning to reveal themselves — slow, patient, divine.

Jeeny: “Kary Mullis once said, ‘Each of us have things and thoughts and descriptions of an amazing universe in our possession that kings in the 17th Century would have gone to war to possess.’”

Jack: “And now we use those miracles to scroll cat videos and argue with strangers.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe. But that doesn’t make it less miraculous. We hold galaxies in our pockets, Jack. Just because we forget their weight doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the smell of salt and sage, that wild fragrance of places untouched by walls or screens. Jack lowered his phone, looking out at the horizon where sea merged with sky, a seamless blue-black eternity.

Jack: “You think Mullis meant this — the internet, the data, the tech? Or something bigger?”

Jeeny: “Both. He was a scientist, but he saw wonder where most people see routine. The same molecules that make DNA replication possible — he turned them into a bridge between the unimaginable and the ordinary.”

Jack: “So you’re saying we’re all kings now, sitting on thrones made of Wi-Fi signals and algorithms?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying we’ve been given access to magic — and most of us forgot to be amazed by it.”

Host: The telescope gleamed, faintly catching the last light. Jeeny walked forward, crouching beside Jack, her reflection flickering in the glass lens.

Jeeny: “Think about it. In your hand, right now — you have more knowledge than Newton, more maps than Magellan, more art than the entire Renaissance combined.”

Jack: “And yet, we use it to measure our loneliness.”

Jeeny: “Because we mistake possession for understanding.”

Jack: “That’s what we do best — turn miracles into furniture.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone mourning what you haven’t even lost yet.”

Host: The waves crashed harder below, white foam catching the starlight. Jack exhaled, slow and deliberate, the sound nearly blending with the sea.

Jack: “It’s funny, though. The kings Mullis mentioned — they’d have killed to know what we know. And now we’d give anything to feel wonder again.”

Jeeny: “Maybe wonder isn’t lost, just buried under convenience.”

Jack: “Convenience — the most elegant killer of awe.”

Jeeny: “No. The killer of curiosity. Awe’s still alive. It’s just quieter now.”

Host: The wind calmed for a moment, and a stillness fell — that rare pause between ocean breaths. The stars sharpened, and the Milky Way began to reveal itself, stretching like a vast river of light.

Jeeny looked up, her voice soft.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Mullis was really saying? That the universe didn’t get smaller — we just stopped kneeling before it.”

Jack: “And you think we should go back to kneeling?”

Jeeny: “Not kneeling — noticing. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Noticing takes time. People don’t have time anymore.”

Jeeny: “Time isn’t the problem, Jack. Attention is. We’ve got telescopes and supercomputers and art galleries in our hands — and we still look down instead of up.”

Host: The waves below roared, like applause for a truth no one wanted to hear. Jack tilted the telescope upward, aligning it with the brightest star. He looked, then stepped aside.

Jack: “Here. Look.”

Jeeny leaned in, pressing her eye to the glass. The starlight refracted, fracturing into color — gold, violet, electric blue — the kind of sight that steals breath.

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful.”

Jack: “That’s a star from what — a few hundred light-years away? You’re looking at light that left before we even existed. Before electricity, before language.”

Jeeny: “And now we hold that light on a screen and swipe past it.”

Jack: “Because we’ve made the infinite too accessible.”

Jeeny: “No, because we’ve forgotten how to be still.”

Host: The truck radio crackled, catching a faint signal — static, a voice, then silence again. Jack turned toward it, listening to the interference.

Jack: “You ever think about how much information we swim in now? It’s like drowning in knowledge and starving for meaning.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Mullis wanted us to see. That access isn’t comprehension. Just because the universe fits in our pockets doesn’t mean it fits in our hearts.”

Jack: “So what do we do?”

Jeeny: “We learn to wonder again. To use the tools without letting them use us. We reclaim awe.”

Host: Jeeny stood, brushing the dust off her jeans. The wind caught her hair again, sending strands flying like smoke against the stars.

Jeeny: “We are the kings he imagined, Jack — only our wars aren’t fought with swords. They’re fought against forgetfulness.”

Jack: “And the prize?”

Jeeny: “Awareness. The simple, impossible act of looking up.”

Host: Jack followed her gaze to the vast sky — the sweep of galaxies, the quiet pulse of satellites, the infinite shimmer of the unknown. The camera pulled back, capturing their small figures against a horizon that curved gently into eternity.

Jeeny: “Every time we remember to be amazed, we win that war all over again.”

Jack: (softly) “So the kingdom isn’t built of gold anymore.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s built of curiosity.”

Host: The waves crashed again, louder this time, like applause from the universe itself. The telescope glinted, a single line of starlight sliding down its frame.

And as the wind whispered through the night, Kary Mullis’s words seemed to hum through the darkness — not as nostalgia, but as revelation:

That in this age of endless connection,
we hold within our palms the universe once dreamed of by kings —
and the only question that remains
is whether we will remember to look up
before the signal fades.