I don't think the human mind can comprehend the past and the

Host: The café was almost empty at this hour — the kind of urban corner place where the lights always flickered, where the walls smelled faintly of espresso and rain-soaked books. Outside, the city blurred through the window — lights bending and breaking in puddles, people drifting like ghosts through time.

A small clock above the counter ticked too loudly for comfort, its rhythm fighting against the quiet hum of a Dylan record spinning softly in the background. The song was old — all gravel and grace — the kind of sound that made even time hesitate.

Jack sat by the window, cigarette in hand, staring not at the street, but at his reflection in the glass — a man half here, half somewhere else. Jeeny sat across from him, nursing a cup of coffee gone cold, her eyes lost in the smoke between them.

On the radio behind the counter, a voice broke through the static — Bob Dylan, weary but wise, murmuring an old truth:
"I don’t think the human mind can comprehend the past and the future. They are both just illusions that can manipulate you into thinking there’s some kind of change."

Jeeny glanced up. Jack’s eyes didn’t move.

Jeeny: “That one hits different.”

Jack: “Dylan always does. Man’s been arguing with God and time since before I was born.”

Jeeny: “And he might be right. Maybe past and future are illusions — the kind we build so we can make sense of how nothing ever really changes.”

Jack: “Or so we can lie to ourselves that it does.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, tracing long silver rivers down the window. The clock ticked louder. Each second felt like a reminder, or a warning.

Jeeny: “You still thinking about her?”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Aren’t I always?”

Jeeny: “Then Dylan’s right. You’re letting time manipulate you. You’ve made a religion out of remembering.”

Jack: “And you haven’t?”

Jeeny: “No. I stopped believing in the calendar a long time ago.”

Jack: “So what do you believe in?”

Jeeny: “Moments. Just this one. The next sip of coffee. The way the world hums when you forget to count it.”

Jack: “That sounds like a pretty way of saying ‘I gave up.’”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s a way of saying I finally stopped pretending I could win against time.”

Host: She leaned back, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. The neon light from the sign outside spilled across her face — pink, blue, gold — shifting her expression with every flicker.

Jack: “You think time’s an illusion. But tell that to someone who’s lost something. The past isn’t just a trick of memory — it’s a wound.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But wounds only keep bleeding if you keep looking at them.”

Jack: “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t carry regret like a second heartbeat.”

Jeeny: “You think regret proves something? It doesn’t. It just keeps you stuck between what was and what could’ve been — a ghost haunting both.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The sound was too loud for how quiet the world had become. Jack crushed his cigarette into the ashtray, the smoke curling upward like the end of a thought.

Jack: “You ever think about how we build our whole lives around a lie? This idea that time moves forward — that there’s a difference between who we were and who we are.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s a lie?”

Jack: “I think it’s a story we tell ourselves so we don’t go insane. The truth is, we’re always in the same moment — just pretending we’re not.”

Jeeny: “Then why does it hurt so much to remember?”

Jack: “Because the illusion’s convincing.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened. For a moment, the argument faded, replaced by something quieter — empathy, maybe, or fatigue. The kind of peace that comes not from agreement, but from exhaustion.

Jeeny: “Dylan said both past and future manipulate us into thinking there’s change. But maybe that’s what we need. Maybe illusion is mercy. Maybe pretending we can change is the only way we do.”

Jack: “That’s not mercy. That’s madness.”

Jeeny: “Or faith.”

Jack: “Faith in what?”

Jeeny: “In motion. In living. In trying again tomorrow, even when you know tomorrow’s just today wearing a new shirt.”

Host: The rain slowed to a drizzle. A faint blue reflection danced across the wet pavement outside. Jack turned his head, watching as a young couple rushed past, laughing, holding hands beneath a newspaper. Their shadows blurred into one.

Jack: “You really believe all this is just one long illusion?”

Jeeny: “No. I believe the illusion’s the only real thing we get.”

Jack: “You sound like him now.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he’s right. Maybe time’s not a road — it’s a room. We just keep walking in circles, pretending it’s a journey.”

Jack: “And love?”

Jeeny: “Love’s the window in that room. Sometimes open, sometimes shut.”

Jack: “And death?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe that’s when the clock finally stops ticking.”

Host: The rain stopped completely now. The sky outside was black glass, the city reflected in itself — infinite, mirrored, timeless. Jack looked down at his coffee, now cold, untouched.

Jack: “You know… maybe that’s why Dylan could write the way he did. He stopped trying to outrun time and started listening to it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The rest of us are just trying to measure what can’t be measured.”

Jack: “And fail beautifully at it.”

Jeeny: “That’s what art is.”

Host: The barista began stacking chairs, the soft scrape of metal on tile marking the end of the night. Jeeny stood, pulling on her coat. Jack followed, his reflection moving with hers in the glass — two shadows caught in the same illusion.

Jeeny: “You know what I like about time?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “It forgets. No matter what we do, it always lets us start again.”

Jack: “Even if nothing really changes?”

Jeeny: “Even then. Because believing in change is how we survive the illusion.”

Host: They stepped outside into the cool, wet air. The streetlights hummed softly, casting halos on the slick pavement. The city was quiet — breathing, waiting, endless.

Jack lit another cigarette. Jeeny looked up at the stars — invisible behind the haze — and smiled.

Jeeny: “Maybe the trick isn’t escaping time, Jack. Maybe it’s learning to love it for what it isn’t.”

Jack: “And what’s that?”

Jeeny: “Real.”

Host: They walked down the street — their footsteps echoing through puddles, fading into the night. The air shimmered with that strange stillness that lives between one moment and the next — the thin edge where illusion and truth shake hands.

And somewhere far above them, behind clouds and electric hum, time turned its face —
not forward, not back,
just endlessly, silently, now.