Hitler was so modern, in that he was obsessed with being famous.

Host: The city was half-asleep beneath a curtain of rain, its lights fractured across puddles like broken mirrors of ambition. The café on the corner of Friedrichstraße flickered with dim yellow lamplight, casting the illusion of warmth in a world too cold for comfort.

Host: Inside, Jack sat by the window, coat damp, hair slicked back, a half-finished espresso in front of him. The steam rose slowly, curling into fragile spirals that vanished before they meant anything — much like the dreams he used to chase. Across from him, Jeeny rested her chin in her hand, watching him with that steady, unsettling stillness that saw more than he ever said.

Host: Outside, the rain drummed against the glass, steady, relentless, the rhythm of history repeating itself.

Jeeny: (quietly) “You ever think about what John Cusack said? ‘Hitler was so modern, in that he was obsessed with being famous. He was caught up with this rush to have achieved greatness before turning 30.’”

Jack: (snorts) “Yeah. That’s one way to make history sound like a midlife crisis.”

Jeeny: “It’s not just about him. It’s about us — about this whole generation of people desperate to matter. To be seen.”

Jack: “You mean the cult of visibility. Yeah, I’ve noticed. Every kid with a phone thinks they’re one viral moment away from immortality.”

Host: His voice carried both cynicism and fatigue — the weight of someone who had once believed in greatness and found it hollow.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes it dangerous? That we confuse attention for impact?”

Jack: (leaning back) “Dangerous? It’s pathetic. At least Hitler’s obsession had scale — monstrous, yes, but deliberate. Today’s obsession is diluted — fame without philosophy. A million people screaming, ‘Look at me!’ without knowing why.”

Host: The rain outside quickened, beating harder against the glass — like the heart of a restless world.

Jeeny: “You think it’s worse now because it’s shallow?”

Jack: “Worse because it’s contagious. Fame used to be a disease of kings and tyrants. Now it’s airborne.”

Host: She smiled faintly, but her eyes were somber. She took a slow sip of her coffee, as if tasting time itself.

Jeeny: “But maybe it’s not just vanity. Maybe people crave fame because it feels like proof they existed. Because being remembered, even for a moment, feels better than being invisible forever.”

Jack: “So you’re saying narcissism is just fear in better clothing?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fear of being ordinary. Fear of fading into the noise.”

Host: Her words landed like raindrops — soft, but with the gravity of truth. Jack looked down at his hands, the faint tremor there, the veins like fine cracks in marble.

Jack: “You know, when I was twenty-five, I thought success would save me. That once people recognized me, I’d finally feel real.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: (smirking) “It didn’t. It just made the emptiness louder.”

Host: The light from the window shifted, reflecting his face against the glass — one man, two versions — the self he showed and the one he hid.

Jeeny: “That’s what Cusack meant, I think. That Hitler’s hunger wasn’t political at first — it was existential. He wanted to matter, and when the world didn’t hand him greatness, he tried to force it. That’s the dark edge of every ambition — when it stops being about purpose and becomes about being seen.”

Jack: “You’re defending him now?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m recognizing the mirror. Every person who ever said, ‘I want to make a mark,’ has the same seed in them. Some grow gardens. Others grow graves.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the room. The shadow of the two of them stretched long and distorted across the wall — twin silhouettes of humanity’s split self: creation and destruction, love and ego, spirit and hunger.

Jack: “So what are we supposed to do, then? Pretend ambition is evil? Stop wanting to be remembered?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe we should want to be useful before we want to be known. Greatness isn’t what people say about you after you’re gone — it’s what your actions heal while you’re here.”

Host: She spoke like someone lighting a candle in a storm. The flame flickered, fragile but defiant, against the trembling of the world.

Jack: “And yet, no one remembers the healers. They remember the destroyers.”

Jeeny: “Only because the destroyers make louder noise. But noise isn’t the same as legacy.”

Host: The rain slowed now, softening into a whisper. The smoke from Jack’s cigarette rose in thin, tired spirals. The moment between them grew heavy — the weight of history pressing into the present.

Jack: (after a pause) “It’s strange. I used to envy people who were famous. Now I just feel sorry for them. They’re like candles burning themselves down for a shadow on a wall.”

Jeeny: “That’s the price of confusing illumination with attention.”

Host: Her words fell gently, but they struck deep. Jack stared out the window, watching the streetlights blur in the rain, each one a small sun trying to prove it mattered.

Jack: “Do you ever feel it? That hunger to be seen — really seen?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But I’ve learned that being seen isn’t the same as being understood. I’d rather live in quiet truth than die in noisy illusion.”

Host: The room seemed to exhale. The lamp flickered once more, its glow now soft and humane.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You always make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s just... real. And that’s what most people can’t stand — reality. It’s quieter than fame, slower than ambition, and infinitely harder to face.”

Host: She reached across the table, her hand brushing his — not in romance, but in recognition. The small, electric contact of one consciousness touching another.

Jeeny: “Maybe greatness isn’t measured in how many people know your name, Jack. Maybe it’s in how few forget your kindness.”

Host: He looked at her then — really looked — as if seeing a truth that no audience could ever applaud, yet one that mattered infinitely more.

Jack: (softly) “Then maybe we’ve been chasing the wrong kind of immortality.”

Jeeny: “Maybe immortality isn’t about memory at all. Maybe it’s about meaning.”

Host: The rain finally stopped. The air outside smelled like clean slate — like something had been forgiven.

Jack: “You know, I think you’re right. Hitler wanted to be remembered. But the greatest souls… they just want to remember others.”

Jeeny: “And in that, they become unforgettable.”

Host: The camera panned slowly outward through the window, across the wet streets and flickering lights, capturing a city full of people — all of them wanting to matter, most of them never realizing they already did.

Host: And inside the little café, two figures sat in quiet clarity — neither saints nor cynics — just humans trying to find the line between ambition and soul.

Host: As the final shot lingered on their table, the candle burned low but steady — the only fame that mattered: the kind that warms instead of blinds.