Experience hath shewn, that even under the best forms of

Host: The rain fell in slow, uneasy rhythms against the fogged glass of a dimly lit café on the edge of an old European square. The streetlights outside flickered like tired sentinels, their yellow glow dissolving in the mist. Inside, the air smelled of coffee, wet coats, and a faint trace of smoke from the fireplace that struggled to stay alive in the corner.

Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes lost in the blurred reflections of the city lights. His jaw was tight, his hands steady as he tapped his finger against a half-empty cup. Jeeny sat across from him, her long black hair damp, her eyes quietly burning with something between sadness and hope. The quote, written on a folded piece of paper, lay between them on the table like a verdict.

Jeeny: “Thomas Jefferson said it best: ‘Experience hath shewn, that even under the best forms of government those entrusted with power have, in time, and by slow operations, perverted it into tyranny.’”

Jack: “Jefferson was right. Power always rots — like fruit left too long in sunlight. It’s the nature of human beings. Give a man control, and he’ll bend it, stretch it, until it fits his own comfort.”

Host: A gust of wind pressed against the window, making the café’s lights flicker. The waitress passed silently, her shoes squeaking against the wooden floor, her eyes glancing briefly toward the two as if sensing the weight of their words.

Jeeny: “But that’s not the whole truth, Jack. If corruption is inevitable, then why do people still fight, still sacrifice, still build systems to prevent it? The civil rights movement, the anti-apartheid struggles, the women who marched for votes— they didn’t do it because they believed humanity was rotting. They did it because they believed it could still be saved.”

Jack: “Saved? Or just delayed? Every revolution you just mentioned — it starts pure, ends poisoned. The French Revolution promised liberty and ended with a guillotine. The Soviets fought for equality and birthed Stalin. Power doesn’t corrupt suddenly; it seeps, Jeeny — slowly, quietly, until people stop noticing.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re saying we should just give up? Accept that every act of leadership will eventually become tyranny?”

Jack: “Not give up. Just accept reality. People crave order. Order needs control. Control breeds power. Power invites corruption. It’s an equation, Jeeny — not a mystery.”

Host: Jeeny’s hands tightened around her mug, the steam from the coffee rising like a faint halo around her face. Outside, the rain began to pour harder, drumming on the glass like a distant march of boots.

Jeeny: “You always sound like you’ve lost faith in people. Do you really think all of us are just waiting for a chance to dominate?”

Jack: “Not all. Just enough to ruin it for everyone else. It’s like a virus, Jeeny. A handful of those infected with greed can destroy entire nations. Look at history — Rome’s senators, America’s lobbyists, modern-day oligarchs. Different names, same disease.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without faith, there’s no resistance. The people who stood in Tiananmen Square, who faced guns and tanks with bare hands, they weren’t driven by cynicism. They were driven by the belief that tyranny isn’t inevitable. That even in the slow decay of systems, there’s always a spark left to fight for.”

Host: Jack’s gaze dropped to the table, the light from the fireplace drawing sharp shadows across his face. For a moment, his expression softened, as if her words had touched something buried deep beneath his armor.

Jack: “You’re mistaking courage for hope. They fought because they couldn’t live otherwise, not because they thought they’d win. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But maybe that’s what makes it beautiful — the fight itself. The refusal to let corruption have the final word. Even if power always corrupts, the human spirit keeps rising, keeps resisting. Isn’t that worth believing in?”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a gentle drizzle, the city lights reflecting off the wet cobblestones like melted gold. Jack leaned back, his jaw clenched, his voice low but trembling with contained emotion.

Jack: “You know what the cruelest part is? Every tyrant thinks they’re saving people. That’s the trick of it. Tyranny doesn’t start with evil — it starts with conviction. A leader convinced he knows what’s best. A follower convinced obedience is noble. By the time anyone realizes, the cage is already built.”

Jeeny: “So what’s your answer then? No leaders? No trust? Just chaos?”

Jack: “No — just vigilance. Eternal vigilance. Jefferson knew it. Power can’t be destroyed, only watched, challenged, restrained. The moment people grow comfortable — that’s when the rot begins.”

Jeeny: “But people get tired, Jack. You can’t live your whole life distrusting everything. There has to be some faith, some love, or you end up building prisons out of paranoia.”

Host: The fire crackled, a few embers bursting into small sparks that floated up the chimney. Jack looked at Jeeny, his grey eyes now softer, the edge of his anger replaced by a quiet ache.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe faith is the counterbalance. But tell me — how do you keep it, when every ideal you’ve seen turns into propaganda? When every savior ends up with blood on his hands?”

Jeeny: “You keep it by remembering that the story isn’t over. Every fall is followed by a rise. The Berlin Wall, Jack — it fell. Decades of fear, control, propaganda — gone. And it didn’t fall because the powerful suddenly grew kind. It fell because people believed again. Believed that truth still mattered.”

Jack: “And how long before new walls rise in its place? You see, Jeeny — the story doesn’t end because the villain dies. The next chapter just writes a new one.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the meaning isn’t in the ending. Maybe it’s in the refusal to stop writing.”

Host: A long silence settled between them. The rain had stopped, leaving the world outside shimmering under the streetlights. The sound of a distant clock echoed through the square, marking another hour lost to the night.

Jack: “You really believe humanity can keep resisting forever?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not perfectly, not without breaking — but yes. Every generation finds its tyrants and its dreamers. And somehow, the dreamers always come back.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, the first real smile of the evening. He lifted his cup, the coffee now cold, and nodded slightly.

Jack: “Then maybe the best we can do is keep the balance — suspicion to keep us alert, faith to keep us human.”

Jeeny: “And love — to remind us why we fight in the first place.”

Host: The firelight flickered over their faces, the shadows of the café stretching long across the floor. Outside, the sky began to clear, revealing the first stars above the wet rooftops. The air felt lighter, as if the world itself had listened and found a moment’s peace.

The paper with Jefferson’s words lay still on the table, the ink slightly smudged by a drop of rain that had fallen from Jeeny’s hair — like a signature left by time itself, whispering a truth neither of them could deny:

That even when power corrupts, the human will to resist — never truly dies.