For the longest time, computers have been associated with work.

Host: The office was quiet — the kind of quiet that hums beneath the glow of machines. Monitors cast long rectangles of blue light across the walls, reflecting off glass and steel. Beyond the window, the city shimmered like circuitry, its towers pulsing in time with a thousand unseen networks.

It was well past midnight. Jack sat at a desk cluttered with keyboards, coffee cups, and the faint ghosts of deadlines. Jeeny stood near the window, her reflection blending with the skyline — half-human, half-electric.

On a large screen in the background, a quote glowed in white text over a deep grey background:
“For the longest time, computers have been associated with work. Mainframes were for the Army, government agencies, and then large companies. Workstations were for engineers and software programmers. PCs were initially for other white-collar jobs.” — Om Malik

The hum of servers filled the room — the sound of human ambition mechanized.

Jeeny: Turning from the window. “It’s strange, isn’t it? The machine that was born for war and labor… now sits in every living room. The same object that calculated death now entertains life.”

Jack: Without looking up from his monitor. “Evolution, Jeeny. Everything that starts as survival ends as convenience. Fire was for warmth — now it’s for ambience. Computers were for control — now they’re for comfort.”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “Comfort? Is that what you call it? We’ve just traded the factory floor for the digital desk. The sweatshop became a spreadsheet.”

Jack: Leaning back, cracking his knuckles. “You make it sound tragic. But isn’t that progress? We built tools to escape physical labor — now we build tools to escape mental labor. It’s the same impulse, just with better screens.”

Jeeny: “But at what cost, Jack? The tool that freed us also tethered us. The same machine that liberated thought has colonized attention.”

Jack: Raises an eyebrow. “You’re quoting poetry again.”

Jeeny: “No — I’m quoting reality. Look around. Even at midnight, the city’s glowing because no one knows how to stop working. Computers made work infinite.”

Host: The city lights flickered, and the faint hum of traffic below merged with the constant digital drone — the pulse of an economy that never sleeps.

Jack: “That’s not the computer’s fault, Jeeny. It’s ours. We built them to serve us, but we can’t stand to be idle. The computer’s just the mirror — it reflects our obsession with productivity.”

Jeeny: “But mirrors change what they reflect, Jack. That’s the danger. They don’t just show us — they shape us. The more we use them, the more we resemble them.”

Jack: Chuckles softly. “So now we’re turning into machines?”

Jeeny: “Haven’t we? We wake up to notifications, measure our worth in metrics, multitask until our minds fragment. Tell me that isn’t automation — just with skin.”

Jack: Shrugs. “Automation brought us here. Without it, half the planet wouldn’t have food, communication, or medicine. You can romanticize humanity all you want, but the machine is just humanity—efficient.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The machine is humanity — simplified. It remembers everything but understands nothing.”

Host: The server light blinked, casting rhythmic shadows across Jack’s face. Outside, the first hints of fog rolled over the city — soft, spectral, and indifferent.

Jeeny: “Om Malik was right. Computers were never meant for living — they were built for work, for systems, for control. And yet, we’ve invited them into our homes, our minds, our intimacy. They’ve gone from being our tools to being our translators.”

Jack: “Translators?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Between what we think and what we say. Between who we are and who we perform to be online. We’ve outsourced expression to interfaces. Every ‘like’ is a line of code pretending to be connection.”

Jack: “That’s still connection, Jeeny. You just don’t like its syntax.”

Jeeny: Her tone sharpens. “Because it’s synthetic! You can’t automate empathy, Jack. You can’t program soul.”

Jack: Pausing, quieter now. “You sure? AI writes poems now. Machines compose symphonies. Maybe soul is just pattern — and we’ve finally learned to replicate it.”

Jeeny: Steps closer, voice trembling with conviction. “No. What they replicate is semblance, not soul. The machine can imitate beauty, but it can’t ache for it. It can sing, but it can’t mean.”

Host: The clock ticked past midnight, each second stretching like an echo in the stillness. The fog outside thickened, swallowing the skyscrapers one by one.

Jack: “You always come back to meaning. But what if meaning itself is mechanical — a series of cause and effect, shaped by biology instead of silicon?”

Jeeny: “Then the difference is mercy. Machines can execute commands — but they can’t choose compassion over correctness.”

Jack: Leaning forward, his voice soft but resolute. “And humans don’t always choose compassion either. We built mainframes for war, remember?”

Jeeny: “Yes — but we also built art from the ruins. That’s the difference. We create not just to function, but to feel.”

Jack: “And now we create machines to feel for us.”

Jeeny: Shakes her head. “No. We create them to remember what we’ve forgotten — that we once built for meaning, not markets.”

Host: The room dimmed as the screen saver took over — a slow swirl of color, a hypnotic algorithm pretending to dream. The fog pressed closer to the glass, and the city below began to disappear.

Jeeny: Looking at the screen, voice soft, almost wistful. “Do you ever wonder if these machines get lonely? They hum all night, surrounded by people who only touch them to demand.”

Jack: A quiet laugh. “Machines don’t feel loneliness, Jeeny. We do. That’s why we keep them close.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because they don’t judge our silence.”

Jack: After a pause. “Or because they don’t answer it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what scares us most — that they never will. We’ve filled the world with voices that don’t echo.”

Host: The lights outside began to fade, the first suggestion of dawn brushing the skyline. The city’s pulse slowed slightly — but never stopped.

Jeeny turned off the monitor, plunging the room into near-darkness. The hum of the servers remained — constant, eternal, like the prayer of progress.

Jeeny: “Computers started as work, Jack. But now they’ve become worship. We built them to serve us, but we ended up kneeling before them.”

Jack: In a whisper. “Maybe worship and work were never that different.”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “Maybe not. But at least prayer once made us human.”

Host: The camera pulled back, showing the two figures silhouetted against the dawn — the worker and the witness, the machine and the mirror. The servers hummed like mechanical choirs, singing the soft hymn of a world that forgot where its labor ended and its living began.

And as the light rose, Om Malik’s words seemed to echo through the metallic dawn — part warning, part lament, part prophecy:

“We taught machines to work for us. Somewhere along the way, we forgot how to stop working for them.”