Experience demands that man is the only animal which devours his

Host: The city was bruised by night — towers of glass glinting faintly like broken promises. A light fog hung low over the streets, swallowing sound, softening motion, blurring the line between the rich and the lost. The neon lights blinked against the mist, stuttering in tired rhythm — red, blue, white — like the pulse of a heart grown mechanical.

In a narrow alley café nestled between old brick and cold steel, the smell of burnt espresso and rain-soaked pavement filled the air. Jack sat by the window, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, a cigarette burning itself into silence between his fingers. His eyes — sharp, grey, tired — watched the world outside like a man who’d already seen too much of it. Across from him, Jeeny stirred a cup of coffee she hadn’t yet tasted. Her face, soft but firm, was lit by the small flame of a candle, the light catching in her brown eyes — the only warmth in the cold geometry of the room.

Host: The rain whispered against the window. Somewhere down the street, the sound of a siren rose, then fell, like a lament.

Jeeny: “Thomas Jefferson once said,” she began quietly, “‘Experience demands that man is the only animal which devours his own kind, for I can apply no milder term to the general prey of the rich on the poor.’”

Jack: (smirks) “Ah, Jefferson. Always the philosopher with blood on his hands.”

Jeeny: “You mean the hypocrisy?”

Jack: “I mean the truth. He saw it even while living it. That’s what makes the quote sting. We’ve built entire civilizations on the art of devouring our own.”

Host: His voice was low, almost reverent — the kind of voice that spoke from wounds rather than wisdom. The smoke from his cigarette rose slowly, twisting in the still air before vanishing like faith in a storm.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that exactly why it matters? Because even the guilty can name the sickness. ‘The general prey of the rich on the poor’ — it’s not just history, Jack. It’s right now. Look out that window. The towers — they’re full of people building their comfort out of someone else’s exhaustion.”

Jack: “And yet,” he said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke, “the poor keep hoping to join them. That’s the brilliance of it — the prey dreams of becoming predator.”

Host: Jeeny’s brow furrowed, the candlelight trembling against her cheekbones.

Jeeny: “That’s not brilliance. That’s conditioning. They’re taught to worship the system that eats them. To believe that hard work equals justice, even when the deck is poisoned.”

Jack: “And what’s your alternative, Jeeny? Tear it all down? You think equality grows out of ruins? History says otherwise. Every revolution ends with new rulers feeding on new victims.”

Jeeny: “Because the revolutions were built by the same hunger — power disguised as justice. I’m not talking about burning the city, Jack. I’m talking about changing what we call success.”

Host: The café light flickered — a tremor of electricity, or maybe emotion. The rain outside turned heavier, painting the glass with running lines like the blurred ink of a confession.

Jack: “You talk like morality pays the bills. But tell me, Jeeny — what happens to ideals when your rent’s due? When your stomach’s empty?”

Jeeny: “They’re tested,” she said. “Not erased.”

Jack: “That’s beautiful,” he said dryly, “but hunger doesn’t care about poetry.”

Jeeny: “And greed doesn’t care about humanity,” she shot back.

Host: The words hit the air hard, sharp, a spark between flint and steel. The café grew quieter — even the barista paused, sensing the current between them.

Jack: “You want to talk about greed? It’s survival wearing a nice suit. We’re animals pretending to be civilized. Jefferson was right — we devour each other. But not because we’re evil. Because we’re desperate. Because the world’s a pit and everyone’s fighting not to sink.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, her voice rising. “That’s the lie that keeps the pit full. We’re not animals anymore, Jack — not unless we choose to be. The rich don’t prey because they have to. They do it because they can.”

Host: She leaned forward, the light from the candle catching the wetness in her eyes. There was anger there, but beneath it — sorrow.

Jeeny: “You’ve seen it. You know it. The man who cuts wages to buy a second yacht. The politician who feeds on promises. The corporations that price medicine like blood. That’s not desperation, Jack. That’s appetite.”

Jack: “Appetite built the world. You think progress comes from virtue? It comes from hunger — the drive to own, to rise, to conquer. Without it, we’d still be in caves.”

Jeeny: “At least in caves,” she said bitterly, “we’d still share the fire.”

Host: A deep silence settled — thick, magnetic. Outside, lightning flashed, carving their faces in sudden, brutal light: his — hard, wounded, defiant; hers — raw, burning, unbroken.

Jack: “You sound like you hate the world.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “I hate what we’ve done to it.”

Jack: “Then fix it,” he challenged. “Tell me how.”

Jeeny: “By remembering,” she said. “That wealth without compassion is cannibalism. That progress without empathy is rot. You can’t build a civilization by feeding on your own.”

Host: Jack looked at her then — really looked. For a moment, the sarcasm faded, replaced by something like guilt.

Jack: “You think empathy can beat the economy?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever has,” she said. “Every reform, every movement, every act of justice — it started with someone refusing to eat another person’s life to feed their own comfort.”

Host: The rain slowed. The window now shimmered like a veil between two worlds — one of neon wealth, one of weary footsteps.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe people can change.”

Jeeny: “I do.”

Jack: “Even the rich?”

Jeeny: “Especially the rich. Because they’ve forgotten they’re human. Experience should teach compassion, but instead, it’s taught them conquest.”

Host: Jack rubbed his temples, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “You know, Jefferson wrote that while owning slaves.”

Jeeny: “I know,” she said softly. “And maybe that’s why it matters more. Because even from inside the machinery, he could see the monster it had become.”

Host: A train thundered past outside, its lights streaking across the fog like a fleeting revelation. The sound shook the windows, rattled the cups, then faded into distance — a reminder that motion never stops, even when meaning does.

Jack: “You ever think we’re doomed to repeat it? The strong feeding on the weak?”

Jeeny: “Maybe,” she said. “But that’s why we keep speaking. Because silence is consent. And consent is complicity.”

Host: The candle between them burned lower, its flame smaller now, but somehow steadier — like defiance refusing to die.

Jack: “You really believe in a world where people stop devouring each other?”

Jeeny: “I believe in a world where at least some try.”

Host: The words came like a prayer. Outside, the rain finally stopped. A faint mist rose from the streets, glowing under the streetlights like breath after crying.

Jack leaned back, letting the silence fill him.

Jack: “Maybe Jefferson wasn’t condemning humanity,” he said slowly. “Maybe he was warning us — that experience itself proves we’re capable of better, but we keep choosing worse.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe experience is the teacher,” she said, “and we’re the students refusing to learn.”

Host: The two sat in silence. The city outside pulsed with its usual rhythm — deals being made, lights turning off, dreams being sold and bought. But inside the little café, something sacred hung in the air — an understanding neither could fully name.

Jeeny: “We devour each other, Jack,” she said softly, “but we also heal each other. Maybe that’s the only balance left.”

Jack: “And which one do you think wins in the end?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Whichever we feed.”

Host: The candle finally flickered out, leaving them in the dim afterglow of the streetlights filtering through the fog.

Outside, the first light of dawn broke faintly across the skyline — pale, trembling, uncertain — like a world that might still remember mercy.

And as the camera pulled back through the café window, the city appeared vast, fractured, alive — a living organism still learning how not to devour itself.