I never ask a man what his business is, for it never interests

Host: The night was thick with mist, wrapping the city in a veil of silver silence. A lone streetlight flickered beside a deserted café, its neon sign humming with weary persistence. Inside, shadows clung to the corners, while the faint aroma of coffee drifted through the air like a half-remembered dream.
Jack sat by the window, his coat still damp from the fog, a cigarette resting between his fingers. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes glowing softly in the muted light, a small notebook open beside her untouched cup.

Host: The hour was late, the city asleep, yet their voices—low, sharp, alive—cut through the quiet like distant bells.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, I came across a line tonight—H. P. Lovecraft once said, ‘I never ask a man what his business is, for it never interests me. What I ask him about are his thoughts and dreams.’”

Jack: (exhales a thin stream of smoke) “Dreams, huh? The man must’ve had the luxury to dream. Most people don’t. They’re too busy keeping their damn business alive.”

Jeeny: “You always make it sound so bleak. Maybe that’s the problem—we’ve forgotten that people are more than what they do. That behind every title and paycheck, there’s someone with hopes, with fears, with visions that reach beyond the ledger.”

Host: Jack’s grey eyes narrowed slightly, reflecting the flicker of the light above them. The sound of a passing train rumbled through the distance, shaking the glass and their silence.

Jack: “And yet it’s the ledger that feeds them, Jeeny. You talk about dreams like they can fill stomachs or pay rent. The world doesn’t run on dreams—it runs on deals, deadlines, and decisions. Business is what keeps society breathing.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly what suffocates the spirit. Look around you, Jack—everywhere, people chase ‘business’ and forget why they’re running. You remember the old worker from the factory down the street? He spent forty years tightening bolts and never once spoke of what he loved. When he retired, he didn’t know what to do with himself. His hands were steady, but his heart had forgotten how to move.”

Host: A gust of wind pressed against the window, and the rain began to fall—slow, deliberate, like thoughts forming in the dark. Jack turned his gaze toward it, his reflection shimmering in the glass.

Jack: “So what do you suggest? We all quit our jobs and start painting sunsets? You romanticize everything, Jeeny. The world’s built on function, not fantasy. Even the painter you adore needs someone to buy his work, or he starves with his brushes.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about abandoning practicality—it’s about remembering humanity. Function without soul is machinery. You can’t deny that the world’s cold efficiency is breaking people apart. Why do you think mental illness, burnout, despair—why do you think they’re everywhere now? Because no one asks what someone dreams. They only ask what they do.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, not with weakness, but with the quiet ferocity of someone who had seen too many souls dim beneath fluorescent lights. Jack leaned forward, his jaw tightening, his tone lower, deliberate.

Jack: “You’re not wrong about the damage. But dreams alone can be just as cruel. People chase them into ruin. Remember the dot-com collapse? Thousands believed they were building a new world—then woke up with nothing but broken code and empty accounts. Dreamers can burn brighter, yes—but they burn out faster too.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not the dream that kills—it’s the world that refuses to let it live. Those people you mention, they weren’t fools. They believed in creating something greater than profit. And that belief—however shattered—is still the only thing that’s ever changed the world. Look at the abolitionists, the suffragettes, the scientists who stared into the unknown—they didn’t act from business sense. They acted from dreams.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, a steady drumming against the glass that seemed to echo the pulse of their argument. Jack’s fingers tapped the table, the cigarette long dead, the ash cold.

Jack: “Idealism has a cost, Jeeny. For every reformer who changes the world, a thousand others are crushed by it. I’ve seen men dream of greatness and end in ruin. The system doesn’t care about their inner poetry.”

Jeeny: “But you care, don’t you, Jack? You pretend not to, but you do. Why else are you here—still talking, still fighting against your own cynicism? Maybe you’re just afraid to admit that you’ve stopped dreaming yourself.”

Host: The words struck like a quiet knife, and for a moment, Jack’s expression faltered. His eyes lowered, searching the steam rising from his forgotten coffee, as though it might reveal a younger version of himself, one who once believed in more than survival.

Jack: (softly) “I used to have dreams, yeah. Once. Thought I’d write, maybe travel, build something that mattered. But the world had other plans. Turns out, thoughts don’t pay mortgages. Dreams don’t negotiate contracts. Reality does.”

Jeeny: “Reality doesn’t have to be the enemy of dreams. It’s supposed to be their canvas. You just painted yours grey.”

Host: The café door opened briefly, letting in a gust of rain and the sound of distant sirens. A man hurried past them, his coat drenched, clutching a briefcase like it was the last thing keeping him afloat. Both Jack and Jeeny watched him in silence.

Jeeny: “That’s what I mean. Look at him. Another man living in defense, not expression. We’ve built a world that rewards performance and punishes passion. Tell me, Jack—when was the last time you asked someone about their dream?”

Jack: (after a pause) “I don’t ask. It’s... safer not to.”

Jeeny: “Safer? Maybe. But emptier too. You’re guarding yourself from the very thing that makes life vivid. That’s what Lovecraft meant, I think—he wasn’t interested in people’s roles, but their realities. What they carry inside.”

Host: The lights above them dimmed slightly, the old bulb humming as if eavesdropping on their truths. Jack’s shoulders eased, his tone softening into something almost regretful.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, sometimes I wonder if dreams are a privilege. The poor can’t afford them. The weary can’t sustain them. Maybe only the comfortable get to ask such questions.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s where you’re wrong. The poor dream more. They have to. A dream is the only thing that tells them tomorrow might not look like today. You see the world through cost; I see it through possibility. Maybe we’re both right—but only one of us believes it’s still worth asking.”

Host: The rain began to lighten, turning into a delicate mist once more. Jack stared at Jeeny, his expression unreadable, as if caught between skepticism and surrender.

Jack: “You’re relentless, Jeeny. You talk like the world’s still salvageable.”

Jeeny: “It is. As long as there’s someone left who asks not about your business, but your dreams.”

Host: The silence that followed was no longer tense—it was full, suspended between understanding and memory. Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out an old notebook, its edges frayed.

Jack: “You know, I used to write in this. Pages of half-thoughts, stories, nonsense. I stopped when I realized no one cared.”

Jeeny: “Then start again. Even if no one listens. Especially then.”

Host: Outside, the streetlight flickered one last time before holding steady. The rain had ceased, leaving the pavement slick and shining, like a mirror for the stars. Jack looked down at his notebook, his fingers tracing the worn leather.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the business of living isn’t the same as the art of being alive.”

Jeeny: “That’s all I’ve been saying.”

Host: Jeeny smiled then—softly, knowingly. The kind of smile that forgives the world its hardness and the heart its walls. Jack looked at her and, for the first time in a long while, smiled back.

Host: The camera pulls away, leaving them in their quiet corner—two souls bound not by commerce, but by conversation. The light of dawn seeps through the mist, painting the café in faint gold. Outside, the city begins to wake, busy again with its endless business—but inside, a man and a woman sit in fragile peace, speaking still of thoughts and dreams.