He that will be angry for anything will be angry for nothing.

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, draped in a veil of mist and neon. From the window of a dim café, streetlights flickered like dying embers against wet pavement. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of coffee and rain-soaked wool. Jack sat in the corner, his jacket still damp, his hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee as if warming something colder than his skin. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes soft, her voice a gentle current breaking the quiet.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder, Jack, how much of our anger is really about the thing itself—and how much is about the void inside us?”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “You’re quoting something, aren’t you?”

Jeeny: “Sallust. ‘He that will be angry for anything will be angry for nothing.’ It’s been on my mind lately.”

Host: A bus hissed by outside, casting a swirl of light across their faces—brief, cold, and beautifully cruel.

Jack: “It sounds noble, but naïve. Anger isn’t the enemy, Jeeny. It’s energy. It’s what changes things. Without it, we’d still be bowing to kings, or accepting every injustice quietly.”

Jeeny: “But the quote isn’t against anger—it’s against the kind that burns for anything. The kind that turns into habit. People who are always angry eventually forget why. Their rage becomes a reflex, not a response.”

Jack: “Maybe. But sometimes reflex is what keeps you alive. When you’ve been pushed, cheated, ignored—you stop waiting for the world to be fair. You fight first, think later.”

Host: Raindrops began to tap against the glass, soft, then steadier, until the sound became a rhythm beneath their words. Jeeny’s eyes flickered with a quiet sorrow, but her voice held steel beneath the warmth.

Jeeny: “And how long do you fight before you become the very thing you hate? Look at our politics, Jack. Look at social media, at every protest turned warzone. Everyone’s angry—at the system, at the past, at each other. And what’s left? Noise. Fire without light.”

Jack: “That’s the cost of caring. You think Gandhi wasn’t angry? Or Martin Luther King? You think Rosa Parks didn’t feel that flame when she refused to move? Their anger wasn’t nothing, Jeeny—it was everything.”

Jeeny: “Yes—but it was disciplined anger. It was anchored to purpose, not ego. That’s what Sallust meant. When anger serves anything, it serves nothing. It becomes an addiction. You see it every day—people looking for reasons to explode, because it’s easier than understanding.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked with measured indifference. A waiter passed by, his footsteps muted against the wooden floor. The air between them tightened—the kind of silence that feels like breathing through glass.

Jack: “Understanding doesn’t fix the world, Jeeny. You can meditate all you want, but the moment someone cuts you off, or betrays you, or lies to your face—you’ll feel it. That flash. That pulse. And don’t pretend it’s wrong.”

Jeeny: “It’s not wrong to feel it. It’s wrong to feed it. That flash becomes your compass, your god. Then what? Every small slight, every inconvenience—anger. Every disagreement—rage. Until nothing’s left of reason or peace.”

Jack: “You talk like peace is the goal. But peace without justice is just anesthesia.”

Jeeny: “And anger without reason is just poison.”

Host: Their words collided like sparks, lighting the smoke-filled air. A couple nearby turned briefly, then returned to their own quiet dramas. Jack’s jaw was tense, his eyes like stormclouds, but beneath the defiance, there was something trembling—a memory, perhaps.

Jeeny: “You remember that man from your old office—the one who got fired last year?”

Jack: “Frank. Yeah.”

Jeeny: “You told me once he used to shout at everyone. That his anger ruined his chances, even when he was right.”

Jack: “He had every reason to be angry. He worked twice as hard as anyone. Got passed over for promotion. Then they let him go. You think silence would’ve saved him?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But neither did his fury. He became predictable—every meeting, every issue, he snapped. People stopped listening. That’s the point, Jack. When you’ll be angry for anything, you end up powerless. You scream, and nobody hears.”

Host: Jack’s hand moved to his temple, rubbing it slowly. The rain had softened, now just a murmur against the windows. The lights flickered once, as if mirroring the fragility of their voices.

Jack: “So what do you want me to do? Smile through injustice? Be calm while the world burns?”

Jeeny: “No. Just know what deserves your fire—and what doesn’t. Because the world will hand you endless reasons to be angry. And if you take them all, you’ll burn yourself before you change anything.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve rehearsed this.”

Jeeny: “I lived it.” (pauses) “When my brother died, I was angry at everyone. The doctors, the hospital, God, myself. For months, it was the only thing keeping me awake. But after a while, I realized… the anger didn’t keep him alive. It just kept me dead with him.”

Host: Her voice cracked, barely a whisper, but it filled the room more than a shout ever could. Jack’s eyes shifted, his defenses loosening like a door unlatched.

Jack: “I didn’t know you blamed yourself.”

Jeeny: “Everyone blames someone. That’s what anger is, Jack—a direction for grief.”

Jack: “Maybe. But grief without anger feels like surrender.”

Jeeny: “And anger without grief feels like vengeance.”

Host: The rain stopped. A beam of streetlight cut through the mist, illuminating the dust in the air—tiny particles, suspended, motionless, like time holding its breath.

Jack: “So what—you’re saying the world needs fewer angry people?”

Jeeny: “No. Just wiser ones.”

Jack: “That’s a tall order.”

Jeeny: “So is surviving your own temper.”

Host: A smile ghosted across Jack’s face, brief, tired, but real. He looked down at his hands, then back at her.

Jack: “You know, you might be right. Anger’s like salt. Without it, nothing tastes real. But too much, and it ruins the meal.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Exactly. It should season justice, not drown it.”

Host: The café quieted. Even the machines behind the counter seemed to pause. Outside, a taxi’s headlights swept across the wet street, drawing a silver scar in the darkness.

Jack: “Funny thing… I used to think if I stopped being angry, I’d stop caring.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think maybe… I’d start healing.”

Host: The moment hung there—fragile, sacred. Two souls, both wounded, both learning that not every flame must burn to give light. Outside, the rain had ceased, but the world still shimmered, alive with reflections—each drop a mirror, each mirror a lesson in control.

Jeeny: “So what will you do, next time you’re angry for nothing?”

Jack: (chuckling softly) “I’ll probably still curse under my breath. But maybe… I’ll breathe before I break.”

Jeeny: “That’s all Sallust ever asked of us, Jack—to breathe before we burn.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then, slowly, through the window, past the glass still fogged with their breath, out into the street where the world looked both ruined and reborn. And for a moment, in that small corner of the city, the storm within two hearts finally rested.