I guess lyrically they're similar because they're talking about

Host:
The warehouse was almost empty, except for the sound of a guitar being tuned somewhere in the dark. The air was heavy — a mix of dust, rain, and the faint metallic scent of forgotten ambition. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered like tired thoughts trying to stay awake.

It was long past midnight. Outside, the city’s freeway hum rose like static — distant, relentless, the sound of a world moving on without them.

Jack sat slouched on a folding chair, cigarette smoke curling around his face. His grey eyes were half in shadow, half in reflection. Jeeny, sitting cross-legged on a crate across from him, held an old vinyl record sleeve in her hands — VAST – Music for People. The record cover was worn, cracked at the edges, the title barely legible.

She traced a finger across it, reading softly:

“I guess lyrically they’re similar because they’re talking about escaping the kind of misery that likes company. ‘The Last One Alive,’ for me, is very simple. It’s just about alienation, really, that causes anger.” — Jon Crosby.

Jeeny: looking up, voice quiet but steady “Alienation that causes anger. You ever feel that, Jack?”

Jack: smirks, exhaling smoke “Every day. But I call it realism.”

Jeeny: “Realism’s just alienation with better PR.”

Jack: grins faintly “Touché. But let’s be honest, alienation’s not some poetic wound. It’s survival instinct. You stop needing people before they stop disappointing you.”

Jeeny: shaking her head “No. You stop needing people, and you start disappearing. That’s what Crosby meant — being the last one alive isn’t strength. It’s surrender.”

Jack: “You say that like connection’s some cure. But it’s not. It’s just a slower kind of death — one where you mistake empathy for oxygen.”

Jeeny: “And what’s the alternative? Breathing in your own loneliness until it suffocates you?”

Host:
A train horn wailed somewhere far off, long and hollow, its echo vibrating through the metal walls. A single light bulb buzzed above them, casting ripples of gold and shadow across the floor.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how anger always follows loneliness? Like it’s the only emotion strong enough to disguise it.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. Anger feels clean. Loneliness just feels… dirty. Like you’ve failed at something no one taught you how to do.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because anger gives you direction. Alienation doesn’t. It’s the feeling of standing in a room full of people and still wondering if anyone can see you.”

Jack: “I’ve been in that room. Hell, I’ve built a life in it.”

Jeeny: softly “Then maybe it’s time you burned it down.”

Host:
The music from the guitar in the background shifted — low, almost mournful, a melody that seemed to hover in midair without resolve. It sounded like a prayer for something that didn’t believe in being answered.

Jack: “You know what I hate most about that quote? The idea that misery likes company. That’s a lie. Misery hates company. It wants solitude — control — a quiet room where no one can tell you you’re wrong to feel empty.”

Jeeny: “Maybe misery just doesn’t know how to ask for help. Maybe it pretends to hate company because it’s afraid of being misunderstood.”

Jack: “Or afraid of being fixed.”

Jeeny: nods slowly “Yes. Some people would rather stay broken than risk the pain of mending.”

Jack: after a pause “You talking about me or you?”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Both.”

Host:
A gust of wind rattled the broken window near the back of the room. The sound echoed like a breath caught in the throat of the building itself. The rain had started again — a steady rhythm that made the empty space feel less lonely, or maybe more honestly so.

Jeeny: “Crosby’s right, though. Alienation turns into anger. But anger’s not the disease — it’s the symptom. The real sickness is invisibility.”

Jack: “And what’s the cure?”

Jeeny: thoughtfully “Being seen. Even if it hurts.”

Jack: laughs quietly “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. Because being seen means you can be rejected. That’s why people hide — not because they hate others, but because they hate what others might confirm about them.”

Jack: “You’re saying loneliness isn’t solitude. It’s self-defense.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host:
Jack dropped his cigarette into an empty bottle, the faint hiss of the ember dying punctuating her point. His shoulders relaxed, as though a weight he didn’t name had just shifted. Jeeny reached over to the record player nearby and placed the needle on “The Last One Alive.” The song began — a haunting, echoing voice threading through layers of strings and static.

Jack: after a while “You ever wonder why music like this hits harder than words?”

Jeeny: listening, eyes distant “Because it doesn’t argue. It just understands.”

Jack: “Or maybe it reminds us of what words failed to save.”

Jeeny: “That too. But there’s something else — songs like this, they make loneliness sound beautiful for once. Like it’s not just pain, but proof that you’ve felt deeply.”

Jack: softly “That’s dangerous. Making pain beautiful. People start wanting to keep it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we need to keep a little of it. It’s what keeps us human.”

Host:
The song reached its chorus — ethereal, wordless, vast. The warehouse seemed to breathe with it. Every silence between the notes felt alive with the things they weren’t saying.

Jack: “You know, when Crosby says ‘the last one alive,’ I don’t think he means surviving others. I think he means surviving yourself — all the parts that die when you stop trying to connect.”

Jeeny: nods “That’s it. Alienation isn’t being alone. It’s being cut off from your own tenderness.”

Jack: “Tenderness. Haven’t heard that word in years.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we mistake it for weakness. But it’s strength. The soft kind — the kind that keeps you from turning into what hurt you.”

Jack: looking at her quietly “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what’s the point of surviving at all?”

Host:
The rain had softened into a hush. The song faded out, leaving only the soft crackle of the record spinning in the silence. Jeeny stood and crossed the room, pulling the chain that turned off the last light. The world went dim except for the faint orange glow of the city seeping through the cracks.

Jack: in the dark “You think alienation ever goes away?”

Jeeny: “No. But sometimes it gets quieter — when someone finally listens.”

Jack: after a beat “Then maybe you just cured mine.”

Jeeny: smiling softly in the dark “No, Jack. You just stopped mistaking your silence for strength.”

Host:
Outside, the city kept breathing — indifferent, immense. Inside, the record player finally stopped spinning, the needle resting in stillness.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The air felt changed — less heavy, more honest. The kind of silence that doesn’t isolate, but connects.

And as the camera would slowly pull back, their silhouettes would remain there — two figures framed in half-light, not quite healed, but no longer alone.

Because alienation may begin in anger —
but it ends, always, in understanding.