I always look forward to the next project. That is one of the

Host: The morning sun broke through the tall studio windows, spilling long streaks of gold across the drafting tables. Sheets of tracing paper fluttered gently in the soft breeze, alive with sketches of dreams not yet built — lines, curves, and smudges that whispered of cities still imagined.

The room smelled faintly of coffee, graphite, and ambition — that unmistakable perfume of creation.

Jack stood over a model of a skyscraper, his hands resting on the edge of the table, his eyes sharp and distant. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a column, her hair catching the sunlight like ink diluted in gold. A stack of architectural journals lay beside her, the top one bearing the name Cesar Pelli.

Jack: “You know, I think he got it right.”

Jeeny: “Pelli?”

Jack: “Yeah. ‘I always look forward to the next project. That’s one of the wonderful things about architecture — you can always hope for another project to design.’”

Jeeny: “You sound like you just got dumped.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Maybe I did. By a building.”

Host: The hum of the city outside drifted in — muffled traffic, a distant siren, the heartbeat of civilization itself. Inside, the studio felt like a quiet rebellion against decay — a temple for people who believed that imagination could defy gravity.

Jeeny: “You really believe that, don’t you? That there’s always another project, another chance?”

Jack: “Of course. Hope’s the only material you can’t run out of.”

Jeeny: “Spoken like an optimist pretending to be a cynic.”

Jack: “No — spoken like an architect who’s had to watch his dreams get value-engineered into mediocrity and still show up to draw again the next day.”

Host: His hands moved unconsciously over the model, tracing the lines of a spire like he was touching memory itself.

Jeeny: “You make it sound tragic.”

Jack: “It’s not tragic. It’s beautiful. Every design is a love affair — short, intense, impossible. You give it everything, and then it gets built and leaves you. And you start again.”

Jeeny: “So buildings are your lovers?”

Jack: “At least they don’t talk back.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “But they forget you faster.”

Host: A faint laugh escaped him — low, honest, brief. It softened the sharp edges of his face.

Jack: “You know, that’s what Pelli understood. Architecture isn’t about permanence. It’s about renewal. You finish one project, you don’t mourn it — you chase the next. There’s always another horizon to sketch.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you ever get tired of starting over?”

Jack: “No. Starting over means you’re still relevant. Still hungry.”

Jeeny: “Still restless.”

Jack: “Restlessness is the price of creation.”

Host: The light shifted — brightening, softening, crawling across the floor like time in motion. Dust motes floated between them, each one catching sunlight like a fleeting idea.

Jeeny: “You talk like the process is salvation.”

Jack: “It is. It’s the only way to outlive yourself.”

Jeeny: “You mean legacy.”

Jack: “No. I mean continuation. Legacy’s just ego with good PR. But continuation — that’s life’s architecture. You build, you fail, you build again.”

Host: She studied him, her gaze soft but steady, as if she were trying to understand the kind of man who loved what he could never keep.

Jeeny: “You think it’s the same with people?”

Jack: “What do you mean?”

Jeeny: “You move from one project to the next — one dream, one relationship, one version of yourself — always rebuilding, never staying. Isn’t that exhausting?”

Jack: “It’s living.”

Jeeny: “It’s running.”

Host: The word lingered — heavier than it sounded, a quiet accusation dressed as concern.

Jack: “You think I run from things?”

Jeeny: “I think you run toward them — before you’ve even finished what you started.”

Jack: “That’s because nothing’s ever finished. Not really.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But some things deserve to be stayed with. To be completed.”

Jack: “Completion is death, Jeeny. The moment you finish something, it stops evolving.”

Host: A long pause filled the room — thick with thought, with quiet, with the smell of rain beginning outside.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather live in unfinished beauty than completed meaning?”

Jack: “Exactly. Because unfinished beauty still breathes.”

Jeeny: “That’s poetic, Jack.”

Jack: “It’s practical.”

Host: The rain began to patter against the windowpanes, slow at first, then steady — a soft percussion that merged perfectly with the pulse of their conversation.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? You love the next project because it’s the only time you still believe you can get it right.”

Jack: “Maybe. But that belief — that hunger — is sacred. It’s what keeps us human.”

Jeeny: “Or haunted.”

Jack: “You say haunted like it’s a curse.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it is. Not everything needs to be built, Jack. Some dreams should stay unconstructed — they’re lighter that way.”

Host: She crossed to the table and picked up a small section of the model — a fragment of a tower. It fit perfectly in her palm, both fragile and defiant.

Jeeny: “But I get it,” she said softly. “I get why you keep going. Every new project is a chance to forgive the last one.”

Jack: (quietly) “And yourself.”

Host: The rain deepened, tapping rhythmically against the glass like a heartbeat. The light dimmed slightly as clouds rolled across the sky, turning the golden studio into a muted cathedral of shadow and reflection.

Jeeny: “So what’s the next one?”

Jack: “A library. Out near the coast. Something that listens to the sea.”

Jeeny: “You design buildings like people — ones that listen.”

Jack: “And you paint people like buildings — ones that hold.”

Host: She smiled, setting the model piece back in place with care, as if completing a prayer.

Jeeny: “You know, Pelli’s right. The next project is always hope disguised as work.”

Jack: “And work disguised as faith.”

Host: They stood there — surrounded by drawings and silence and rain — two creators caught in the sacred restlessness of those who build what can never truly be finished.

Outside, the storm began to soften, and a faint light broke through the clouds, tracing the skyline in silver.

Jack looked at it and whispered, almost to himself:

Jack: “Every building ends. But the act of imagining — that’s eternal.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what we’re really designing, Jack. Not cities — but second chances.”

Host: The rain stopped. The room brightened again — soft, clean, alive.

The drafts on the table stirred as the breeze moved through, lifting the edges of unfinished sketches — quiet promises of what could be.

And in that moment, surrounded by models, sunlight, and memory, the truth of Pelli’s words lived in them both:

That for those who dream in form and build with faith,
there is always another design,
another dawn,
another hope taking shape in the hands that never stop creating.