I could have been an architect, but I don't think I'd have been

Host: The skyline of the city glowed like a fractured circuit board, its towers of glass and steel shimmering under the tired moonlight. The river below reflected their broken symmetry, a distorted mirror of ambition. At the edge of a half-built skyscraper, on the 42nd floor, two figures stood in the wind — Jack and Jeeny — wearing hard hats and safety vests, their faces half-hidden in the pale blue flicker of unfinished light.

The wind howled through the open frames, carrying the echo of drills, saws, and distant traffic. Somewhere far below, a radio played faintly — “Wish You Were Here” — as if fate had chosen the soundtrack for their conversation.

Jack leaned against a cold beam, a cigarette between his fingers. Jeeny stood near the edge, looking down at the sprawling maze of construction and concrete.

Jeeny: “Roger Waters once said, ‘I could have been an architect, but I don't think I'd have been very happy. Nearly all modern architecture is a silly game as far as I can see.’”
(she smiled faintly) “Do you agree with that, Jack?”

Host: Jack exhaled, the smoke swirling upward like an ephemeral design, shapeless and fleeting.

Jack: “A silly game? Maybe he’s right. Look at this place — they call it a ‘vertical community,’ but it’s just a box for selling views. Architecture today’s less about shelter and more about spectacle. Build it taller, shinier, colder. It’s the same logic that built everything else hollow.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a disappointed artist.”

Jack: “No — just a realist. Every generation wants to leave a mark. Architects used to build cathedrals — places of meaning. Now they build condos for the rich and call it innovation.”

Host: The crane lights above flickered red in the misty air, casting thin streaks of color across their faces. Jeeny turned toward him, her eyes soft but sharp, alive with thought.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not as hollow as you think. Modern architecture is a reflection of who we are — restless, experimental, lost between art and economy. Even chaos tells a story.”

Jack: “A story of vanity, maybe. You ever walk past those glass towers at night? All those empty rooms glowing like teeth in a dead man’s smile? That’s not design — that’s decay disguised as progress.”

Host: His voice carried bitterness, but also a trace of sadness — the kind that comes from watching beauty rot under commerce. Jeeny took a slow breath, then stepped closer, her hair whipping in the wind.

Jeeny: “But what about the architects who still dream? The ones designing sustainable homes, rebuilding schools after earthquakes, creating spaces that heal — hospitals with light and color, housing for refugees? You can’t call that a silly game.”

Jack: “Sure, there are a few — idealists in a system built to crush idealism. The same system that tells you a tree is less valuable than the land it stands on.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve lost faith in creation itself.”

Jack: “Maybe I have. We build to impress, not to express. Architecture used to serve humanity. Now humanity serves architecture.”

Host: A silence hung between them. Far below, the sound of a dropped hammer echoed through the skeleton of the building — sharp, metallic, and final. Jack flicked his cigarette into the void, watching it fall like a dying star.

Jeeny: “You know, Roger Waters didn’t just reject architecture — he built his music like one. Every song a structure, every lyric a room where people could feel something real. Maybe what he meant is that truth should be the foundation of all creation — whether in stone, sound, or soul.”

Jack: “Truth doesn’t sell, Jeeny. Not in cities like this.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the tragedy — not that modern architecture is silly, but that modern living is. We’ve forgotten what buildings were meant to be — extensions of our spirit, not cages for our success.”

Host: The clouds began to gather, their edges glowing faintly as the first drops of rain tapped against the metal. The unfinished floor gleamed under the water’s sheen, reflecting the faint shimmer of lightning on the horizon.

Jack: “You talk like architecture’s supposed to save us.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not save us — but remind us. Think of Gaudí’s Sagrada Família. It’s still unfinished, after more than a century. That’s not failure. That’s faith carved in stone. Every arch, every column — alive with belief. It breathes.”

Jack: (smirking) “And yet tourists line up to take selfies with it. So much for reverence.”

Jeeny: “But they go, Jack. Because it calls to something ancient in them — a need to stand inside meaning. That’s what’s missing in these towers — meaning. We’ve replaced it with minimalism, as if emptiness were elegance.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, splashing across the steel beams. Jack wiped his brow, the moisture glistening against the dust on his face. He looked up, toward the skeletal crown of the structure, then back at Jeeny.

Jack: “You really believe art can still be sacred? Even in a world that turns everything into a brand?”

Jeeny: “I believe sacredness doesn’t die — it hides. It hides in music, in architecture, in kindness. Sometimes even in ruins.”

Jack: “Ruins?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because ruins remind us that beauty was once attempted.”

Host: The wind paused, as if listening. Below them, the city pulsed — traffic, neon, the hum of ambition. Jack’s eyes softened. He looked out at the horizon, where cranes stood like iron skeletons clawing at the night sky.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I wanted to build things. Not skyscrapers — small things. A cabin, maybe. Somewhere quiet. But then I realized no one pays for silence.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe silence is the last luxury. The one we must learn to build again.”

Host: The thunder rolled in the distance, deep and mournful. The two of them stood close now, both soaked in the rain, both staring out at a world too proud to admit its own emptiness.

Jack: “So, what are we really building, Jeeny? Cities? Or prisons with glass walls?”

Jeeny: “We’re building mirrors. The question is — what do we see when we look into them?”

Host: Her words cut through the storm like a wire drawn tight. Jack stared at her — then at the skyline — a mosaic of reflections, beauty, and deceit. For a moment, even his cynicism felt small against the vast loneliness of human design.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe Waters was right. Maybe architecture has become a game. But games can change — if the players do.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The real architect isn’t the one who builds walls — it’s the one who designs spaces where hearts can still echo.”

Host: The rain slowed, leaving the world coated in a fragile sheen of light. A single ray of dawn broke through the clouds, washing the building’s steel in pale gold. Below them, the city breathed — chaotic, flawed, alive.

Jeeny stepped forward, peering down the long, empty shaft of what would soon become an elevator. Jack followed her gaze — two silhouettes standing on the edge of human ambition.

Jeeny: “Maybe we don’t need more architects, Jack. Maybe we need more dreamers.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Or more builders who remember why they started.”

Host: The sunlight spread across the horizon, touching the river, the rooftops, the cranes, and finally their faces. For the first time that night, both of them looked… at peace.

Between them, in the hum of the awakening city, there lingered the unspoken truth of Waters’ words —
that creation without purpose is a hollow tower,
and happiness is not in the height of what we build, but in the soul that shapes it.

The wind whispered through the beams one last time, carrying their laughter into the dawn — two voices, fragile but certain, echoing among the unfinished dreams of steel and sky.