I have no faith in human perfectability. I think that human

Host: The library was ancient — its ceilings high, its air heavy with dust and the scent of old pages. Shadows moved across rows of forgotten books, the light of a dying fireplace flickering across wooden shelves like the pulse of something ancient, breathing but unseen.

The rain outside beat softly against stained glass windows, where colored light bled through and fell across the faces of Jack and Jeeny — two souls lost in time, caught between philosophy and despair.

Jack sat in a worn leather chair, his eyes shadowed, a book half-open in his lap. Jeeny stood by the fire, her hands stretched toward the warmth, her reflection shimmering in the flames like a ghost listening to her own heartbeat.

Jeeny: “Edgar Allan Poe once said, ‘I have no faith in human perfectability. I think that human exertion will have no appreciable effect upon humanity. Man is now only more active — not more happy — nor more wise, than he was 6000 years ago.’”

Host: The words floated through the silence like the smoke above the fire — heavy, curling, unresolved.

Jeeny: “He saw the world’s progress as a fever — movement mistaken for meaning.”

Jack: quietly “And he was right.”

Jeeny: turning “You agree with him?”

Jack: “Of course. Look around you. We’ve built machines that think, bombs that erase cities, and we still can’t stop lying, hating, killing. We’ve gotten faster — not better.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that just one lens? Maybe we’ve just forgotten how to measure wisdom correctly.”

Jack: smirking “Wisdom doesn’t need rebranding, Jeeny. If humanity were truly evolving, we wouldn’t still be mourning the same sins under different names.”

Host: The fire cracked sharply, sending a small flare into the air — as if the universe itself punctuated his bitterness. The shadows deepened, painting his features with tired defiance.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve given up on us.”

Jack: “No — I’ve accepted what we are. Poe wasn’t a pessimist; he was honest. We keep dressing up our instincts in philosophy, in art, in faith — but we’re still animals fighting over survival, power, and pride.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you mistake struggle for stagnation. Just because we still bleed doesn’t mean we haven’t learned how to heal faster.”

Jack: “Healing faster isn’t wisdom. It’s efficiency.”

Jeeny: “And efficiency saves lives.”

Jack: “But doesn’t redeem them.”

Host: Jeeny moved toward him slowly, her footsteps soft on the wooden floor. The firelight brushed across her face, revealing both tenderness and defiance — the kind of glow that comes from someone who still dares to believe.

Jeeny: “You sound like the world exhausted you before it ever loved you.”

Jack: bitterly “The world doesn’t love anyone, Jeeny. It uses us — feeds on our hope. Every age thinks it’s special, that its suffering means something new. But history’s just a loop with better lighting.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather not hope at all?”

Jack: “Hope is the narcotic of the naïve.”

Jeeny: “And despair is the addiction of the proud.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick — electric, almost sacred. The firelight danced between them, two philosophies flickering in opposition.

Jack: “You really think humanity is capable of perfecting itself?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think it’s capable of trying. And in that trying, something beautiful happens — even if we never arrive.”

Jack: “That’s romantic nonsense. Progress without destination is futility.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s faith.”

Jack: leaning forward “Faith in what?”

Jeeny: “In the possibility that love, compassion, and thought — however fragile — are still worth fighting for.”

Jack: “Love hasn’t saved us from war.”

Jeeny: “But it’s saved us from extinction.”

Host: The rain outside turned heavier now, a steady drumming that blurred the edges of their words. The flames in the hearth snapped like impatient applause.

Jack closed the book in his hands — Poe’s essays — and stared at the cover as if searching for a hole in time.

Jack: “You know, Poe wrote that in an age that still believed in destiny. He saw the rot beneath the dream. We think we’re wiser because we have technology, because we’ve mapped the stars. But tell me — why does the human heart still crave destruction?”

Jeeny: “Because pain is proof we’re alive. But creation is proof we’re divine.”

Jack: scoffing “Divine? We’re cosmic accidents pretending to matter.”

Jeeny: “And yet here we are — two accidents arguing about meaning. Doesn’t that prove we’ve evolved?”

Jack: after a pause “Maybe it proves we’ve gotten louder.”

Jeeny: “No — it proves we’ve gotten more human.”

Host: The firelight flickered across their faces, painting them like two portraits — one of shadow, one of flame. The sound of a clock ticking filled the air, a soft reminder that time — like history — never stops, even when progress does.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Poe missed?”

Jack: quietly “Enlighten me.”

Jeeny: “He measured progress in the wrong currency. He looked for wisdom in humanity’s inventions instead of its intentions. The heart evolves slower than the mind, Jack — but it does evolve.”

Jack: “You think compassion is evolution?”

Jeeny: “It’s revolution — the only kind that matters.”

Jack: with a half-smile “You always make despair sound like poetry.”

Jeeny: “And you always mistake poetry for denial.”

Host: The wind howled against the windows, and a candle on the mantel flickered out, leaving only the glow of the fire. Their silhouettes moved closer now — not in agreement, but in the intimacy of shared awareness.

Jack: “Poe’s right, though. We’re not happier. We’re not wiser. We’ve just built more ways to distract ourselves from the emptiness.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even in that emptiness, people still write, still love, still forgive. Maybe perfectability was never the goal. Maybe the miracle is that we keep trying despite knowing we’ll fail.”

Jack: “You call failure a miracle?”

Jeeny: “When it keeps birthing beauty — yes.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the tension in his face loosening into something softer — not belief, but curiosity. The kind that trembles on the edge of surrender.

Jack: “So you think humanity’s struggle is its art.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The masterpiece isn’t perfection — it’s perseverance.”

Jack: “Then maybe Poe wasn’t wrong. Maybe he just mistook exhaustion for truth.”

Jeeny: “And maybe you’ve mistaken cynicism for wisdom.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Touché.”

Host: The fire crackled again, brighter now — as though the room itself was breathing relief. Outside, the rain began to fade into mist, the thunder softening into a distant hum.

Jeeny walked to the window, pressing her hand against the cold glass, watching the city blur beneath the storm.

Jack stood beside her, quiet, reflective.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe we’re not supposed to reach perfection. Maybe we’re supposed to recognize beauty in the attempt. Poe wrote from darkness — but even he used words to escape it. That’s progress enough.”

Jack: “So hope is evolution’s secret?”

Jeeny: “No — the soul’s.”

Jack: after a long silence “Maybe that’s what makes us wiser than we were 6,000 years ago. Not the tools — the will to keep reaching.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The divine in us isn’t the ability to ascend — it’s the refusal to stop trying.”

Host: The camera slowly pulled away from them — two figures framed by light and shadow, by fire and rain. The library behind them stretched into infinity, every book a whisper from the past, every flame a testament to survival.

And as the last sparks from the fire rose and faded into the dark, Poe’s words lingered — somber, immortal — while their hearts quietly rebelled against them.

Because perhaps humanity’s tragedy and triumph are one and the same:

We may never be perfect — but we will never stop reaching for the flame.