Experience has taught me, when I am shaving of a morning, to keep

Host: The morning light filtered through the thin curtain, laying soft bands of gold across the sink, the mirror, and the faint steam rising from a cup of black coffee. The city outside was still half-asleep—a dog’s bark, a distant horn, the slow whisper of wind against glass.

Jack stood before the mirror, razor in hand, his jawline sharp, his eyes hollow from a night without rest. Jeeny sat on the edge of the bathtub, her hands wrapped around her knees, watching him with that quiet, curious gaze that always cut through his armor.

The quote was written in her notebook, its ink still wet:
“Experience has taught me, when I am shaving of a morning, to keep watch over my thoughts, because, if a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.” — A. E. Housman.

Jeeny: “You ever get that, Jack? That feeling that beauty can be so real, it almost hurts?”

Jack: “No.” (He rinsed the razor, cold water splattering the sink.) “Beauty doesn’t hurt. It distracts. That’s the difference. You start feeling, you stop doing. That’s what Housman was warning about.”

Host: His voice was low, steady, but it carried an edge—a man fighting to stay grounded while the world tried to float away from him.

Jeeny: “You always say that, Jack. As if feeling is some kind of enemy. But he wasn’t afraid of feeling—he was awed by it. The poetry in his head made his body tremble. That’s not weakness. That’s life.”

Jack: “That’s interference. Try holding a razor to your skin when your mind is somewhere in heaven. You’ll cut yourself open. You think Housman was romanticizing it. I think he was confessing how dangerous it is to lose control.”

Jeeny: “Or how alive it feels to lose it.”

Host: The steam from the coffee curled in the air, a fragile ghost of heat that rose and vanished. The mirror fogged slightly, softening Jack’s reflection, as if even the glass hesitated to define him.

Jack: “You know what that moment is? It’s your body telling you you’ve gone too far. That the mind has wandered from the real. The razor is truth, Jeeny. It needs precision, not poetry.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you write at all, Jack? Why do you carry that notebook in your coat? Don’t pretend you don’t feel that same shock when words find you.”

Host: His hand paused, the blade hovering just above his jaw. A thin drop of foam slid down his neck, melting into the sink. His eyes met hers in the mirror—gray, steady, but with a flicker of memory buried beneath.

Jack: “Because I used to. Before I learned what it costs.”

Jeeny: “And what did it cost you?”

Jack: “Everything that makes poetry possible.”

Host: The room tightened around them—air thick, soundless except for the faint drip of a leaky faucet.

Jeeny: “You can’t kill the music in your head just because it scares you, Jack. You’ll kill yourself before you silence it.”

Jack: “Music doesn’t scare me, Jeeny. What scares me is that it makes me feel something I can’t control. You know what happens when a soldier hesitates because a memory of home crosses his mind? He dies. Same rule applies to anyone trying to survive.”

Jeeny: “You think life is a battlefield, don’t you?”

Jack: “It is. Every morning, same fight—against regret, against hope, against the urge to believe there’s something beautiful out there that won’t break you.”

Host: The mirror reflected the two of them like characters caught between worlds—her eyes shining with fire, his face carved with resistance. The steam had faded, but the air was still thick with unsaid things.

Jeeny: “You remind me of A.E. Housman himself. Do you know he was a scholar, cold, disciplined—and yet he wrote poems that could crack your chest open? He feared his own emotion, but he fed on it. You’re the same.”

Jack: “He was smart enough to keep his distance. He knew that if he ever let himself feel too much, it would destroy him.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the distance that destroys you. Look at his life—alone, always restrained, always watching the edge but never jumping. His razor wasn’t just for his face; it was for his soul.”

Host: Her voice shook slightly, but her eyes stayed steady. Jack set the razor down, the metal clinking against the porcelain like a tiny bell of truth.

Jack: “So what—he should’ve just given in? Let poetry rule him? Let feeling erase his discipline?”

Jeeny: “Maybe he should’ve let it touch him once without fear. Maybe you should, too.”

Host: The morning light shifted, catching the edge of the mirror, splitting it into a halo around her reflection. Jack stared, the lines of his face softening, as if remembering a younger version of himself—one who once believed that words could save him.

Jack: “When I was twenty, I wrote a line once. Just one. It came out of nowhere—no reason, no thought. And when I read it, I shook so bad I dropped the pen. I thought it meant I’d found something divine. Now I know it was just illusion.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It was truth. The kind of truth you can’t analyze—you can only feel. Housman didn’t fear poetry because it was an illusion. He feared it because it was real.”

Host: A bird called from the windowsill, a clear, lonely note that cut through the tension like a thread of light. Jack leaned on the sink, breathing deeply. The foam on his jaw had melted, but his eyes were awake now—alive, vulnerable, haunted.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s why I stop the razor. Not because I’m distracted, but because I remember—for a second—what it’s like to feel something that’s bigger than me.”

Jeeny: “That’s all I’m saying, Jack. That’s the moment worth living for. The one that makes you forget your discipline, your fear, your walls. The one that makes your skin bristle.”

Jack: “And what if it cuts me?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s a good wound. The kind that reminds you you’re still human.”

Host: The sun broke through the curtain, filling the bathroom with warm, golden light. Jack picked up the razor again, but this time his hand stopped midair. He smiled faintly, the first trace of it in weeks, and set it down once more.

Jeeny stood, moved closer, and touched his shoulder lightly. The contact was small, but it anchored the moment—like gravity finding its center.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to choose, Jack. You can shave and dream. You can fight and still feel. That’s what it means to live in the real world.”

Jack: “Yeah.” (He nodded slowly.) “Maybe the razor isn’t supposed to cut through the poetry. Maybe it’s just there to remind you how sharp life really is.”

Host: The camera would have lingered on that image—the light on his face, the foam melting, the mirror catching both of their reflections, one scarred, one serene, both alive.

The morning stretched, quiet and honest. The razor rested, and for once, so did Jack’s mind. In that pause, between motion and thought, life felt almost poetic.