I hate to see the way journalism is devalued: We have to feed the

Host: The rain beat against the tall windows of an old newsroom, its once-bustling hum now replaced by the echo of emptiness. Rows of abandoned desks stretched into the dark, their typewriters long silenced, their screens asleep. The air smelled faintly of ink, dust, and regret — the aftertaste of truth turned into commodity.

A single desk lamp glowed in the corner, its light falling on Jack, who sat hunched over a newspaper that no longer printed stories — only outrage. Across from him, Jeeny stood by the window, her reflection fractured in the glass as lightning flashed over the skyline. The faint hum of a television filled the room, a talking head shouting headlines like hymns to hysteria.

Jeeny: “Seymour Hersh once said, ‘I hate to see the way journalism is devalued: We have to feed the machine; we have to feed the Trump outrage machine, to feed the anger against Trump, to feed the New York liberal anger.’”

Jack: (sighing) “He’s right. We don’t report anymore — we react. Journalism used to hunt truth. Now it just hunts traffic.”

Host: The lamp flickered, casting long, thin shadows across the piles of papers — headlines screaming about chaos, betrayal, crisis. The kind of noise that once felt urgent, but now just felt hollow.

Jeeny: “It’s not just about Trump. He’s a symptom, not the disease. The disease is addiction — not to power, but to outrage. Anger became the new economy.”

Jack: “And outrage became our national sport. Everyone needs a villain now — even if they have to invent one.”

Jeeny: “The media doesn’t just report conflict anymore; it manufactures it. Fear sells. Fury sustains.”

Jack: “You can’t sell nuance. It doesn’t trend.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, streaking down the windows like a thousand unshed tears for a truth that had gone missing. The television glow painted their faces blue — ghostly, detached, like witnesses to a crime they couldn’t stop.

Jeeny: “I wonder if Hersh ever feels like a ghost himself — watching the profession he gave his life to dissolve into noise.”

Jack: “Probably. He broke the My Lai massacre story. He held the Pentagon to account. Now the only thing that holds power accountable is an algorithm — and it’s programmed to prefer hysteria.”

Jeeny: “It’s not journalism anymore. It’s theater.”

Jack: “Worse — it’s religion. Everyone’s preaching their side, shouting their gospel, excommunicating whoever disagrees. Objectivity died the moment truth stopped being profitable.”

Host: The TV volume rose slightly, the commentator’s voice sharp, breathless, hungry. Jack muted it with a click. Silence returned — thick, deliberate.

Jeeny: “We turned the Fourth Estate into the Fifth Column.”

Jack: “And called it progress.”

Jeeny: “No, we called it freedom. But freedom without discipline is just noise.”

Host: The rain softened, the rhythm steadier now — as if the storm outside had paused to listen.

Jack: “I miss when journalism had memory. When facts took time, and words had weight. Now we measure truth in clicks, not consequences.”

Jeeny: “You think there’s any way back?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Only if people start hungering for silence again. For thinking instead of reacting. For reading instead of scrolling.”

Jeeny: “That’s not hunger anymore. That’s rebellion.”

Host: She moved closer to him, her voice low, her words precise — like a scalpel cutting through the fog.

Jeeny: “Hersh understood that journalism wasn’t about feeding the people — it was about starving the powerful. But now? Now the press feeds the same machine it was meant to watch.”

Jack: “Because the watchdog started wanting the bone.”

Jeeny: “And the public keeps throwing it.”

Host: The lamp hummed faintly, the bulb struggling against the dim. Outside, the lightning illuminated the skyline — towers of commerce and communication, their lights still burning long after the truth had dimmed.

Jack: “You know what’s worse? People still think they’re informed. They mistake noise for knowledge, passion for proof.”

Jeeny: “And journalists mistake visibility for integrity.”

Jack: “Fame has replaced faith.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the tragedy Hersh sees — that journalism, the one noble craft left after politics, after power, after ideology — traded its soul for relevance.”

Host: The silence between them grew thicker, the only sound the steady tap of rain and the soft crackle of the dying bulb.

Jack: “You ever wonder what Hersh would say to a young journalist now?”

Jeeny: “Probably: ‘Stop writing for approval. Start writing for consequence.’”

Jack: “And how many would listen?”

Jeeny: “Few. But those few could still change something.”

Host: The clock struck midnight, its chime hollow in the cavernous newsroom. The room seemed to shrink, folding itself into intimacy — two people surrounded by ghosts of typewriters and stories that once mattered.

Jack: “Maybe journalism doesn’t need to be saved. Maybe it just needs to remember what it was.”

Jeeny: “What it was — and what it wasn’t. It wasn’t entertainment. It wasn’t applause. It was a moral act.”

Jack: “And morality doesn’t sell ads.”

Jeeny: “But it sells truth — if we’re still buying.”

Host: The lamp finally flickered out, leaving only the soft, rhythmic pulse of city lights outside. Jeeny and Jack sat in darkness — not defeated, but reflective, as if the room itself had gone quiet out of respect for what had been lost.

Jeeny: “You think the machine ever stops?”

Jack: “No. But maybe one day, we stop feeding it.”

Host: A distant thunder rolled across the sky, echoing like applause for honesty — rare, fleeting, defiant.

And as the scene faded into shadow, Seymour Hersh’s words hung like the final headline of a fading civilization:

that truth starves where outrage feasts,
that journalism without integrity
is just performance dressed as principle,

and that the only rebellion left
in a world addicted to noise
is the quiet, stubborn act
of telling the truth —
not to feed the machine,
but to starve it.