I really think it is amazing that people actually buy software.

Host: The neon lights of the city flickered outside the window like restless spirits. Inside the small apartment, the air was thick with the hum of machines — servers, fans, and the faint clicking of keyboards. Jack sat at a cluttered desk, screens casting shifting blue light across his face. Jeeny stood near the window, her reflection merging with the cityscape beyond — a ghost of thought framed by glass and night.

A storm brewed in the distance, and with every flash of lightning, the room seemed to pulse with invisible questions.

Jack: “You know what’s funny, Jeeny? Bill Budge once said, ‘I really think it’s amazing that people actually buy software.’ He was right. I still don’t get it — people paying for something that can be copied infinitely, that lives on circuits and bits. It’s absurd.”

Jeeny: “Absurd, or beautiful? Maybe people aren’t just buying code, Jack. Maybe they’re buying trust, effort, a piece of someone’s mind made tangible.”

Host: The rain began to fall — soft at first, like a memory, then harder, tapping against the glass like impatient fingers. The computer screens flickered with lines of code, their rhythm echoing the tension in their voices.

Jack: “Trust? Please. Software is just a product — zeros and ones arranged in a useful way. People buy it because they have to. They want convenience, security, an easy life. They’re not paying for art, they’re paying for functionality.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a machine yourself when you say that. Isn’t there something more? When people pay for software, they’re supporting the mind that created it. It’s no different from buying a book, or music, or a painting.”

Jack: “It’s completely different. A painting can’t be replicated endlessly. A book has physical weight, a signature of ownership. But software? You can duplicate it a million times without losing a single pixel. There’s no scarcity — and without scarcity, value is an illusion.”

Host: A low rumble of thunder rolled through the night. Jack’s voice was steady, but a shadow of weariness crossed his eyes. Jeeny turned from the window, her hair catching the light like strands of ink, her expression soft but unyielding.

Jeeny: “You always talk about scarcity like it’s the only measure of worth. But tell me, Jack — do you think love loses value because it can be given freely? Do you think ideas lose worth because they spread?”

Jack: “Don’t twist it, Jeeny. Love isn’t commerce. Ideas don’t pay rent. You can’t build a company on ‘shared feeling.’”

Jeeny: “And yet the biggest companies in the world were built on that exact thing — shared feeling. Think about open-source projects. Linux, for instance. Built by volunteers, sustained by faith in collaboration. No one paid at first — but millions depend on it now. Doesn’t that prove that people value creation itself, not just ownership?”

Host: The room filled with the glow of lightning, illuminating Jack’s furrowed brow. He leaned back, the chair creaking under the tension of his thoughts. Outside, a car passed, its headlights painting transient streaks across the wall.

Jack: “Open source — that’s exactly my point. They give it away. The world takes it, uses it, builds on it. The creators get respect, maybe, but not money. You think that’s sustainable? You think genius should starve just to make the world feel moral?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not starve, but perhaps genius should be shared. The best things in life are shared. Education, medicine, music — even laughter. The moment you put a price tag on every bit of human creation, you reduce it to a commodity. You cheapen it.”

Jack: “And if no one pays, who keeps the lights on? Who funds the next discovery, the next cure, the next version of the software you romanticize? The market exists because people pay. Without that, ideals crumble.”

Host: The rain intensified, beating against the glass in chaotic rhythm. The city outside glowed like circuitry — streets pulsing with light, people hurrying under umbrellas like electrons seeking shelter. Inside, silence thickened between them, electric and alive.

Jeeny: “So you think people buy software out of necessity, not respect?”

Jack: “Of course. Out of need. Out of fear of malfunction. Out of the desire for control. It’s not admiration — it’s dependency.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe dependency is admiration. People buy it because it makes them feel empowered, capable — connected. When someone downloads a program, they’re not just installing a tool. They’re inviting someone else’s mind into their own.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, but that’s just sentiment. You can decorate it all you want — it’s still commerce.”

Host: Jeeny moved closer to Jack, her shadow merging with his on the wall. The computer monitors cast twin halos of pale light around them, two small worlds orbiting the gravity of a single question: what is value?

Jeeny: “Commerce doesn’t have to be cold. Maybe the amazing part isn’t that people buy software — it’s that they choose to. They could steal it, copy it, pirate it. But they don’t. They pay because they believe in the creator’s right to live. That’s faith, Jack. Quiet, ordinary faith in the unseen.”

Jack: “Faith? You’re talking about the same humanity that pirates music, plagiarizes art, and uses cracked software daily?”

Jeeny: “And yet, they still buy. Despite all that. That’s what amazes me too — just like Bill Budge. People could take, but they choose to give. That’s where the miracle is.”

Host: The storm softened, as if pausing to listen. The air inside the room grew still, and the faint hum of the machines became the only heartbeat. Jack looked at Jeeny, his expression unreadable — a mixture of logic and something almost like wonder.

Jack: “You really think morality drives commerce?”

Jeeny: “No, not morality — gratitude. Somewhere deep down, people feel thankful that someone thought, coded, dreamed. That someone built the thing they didn’t know they needed. Gratitude disguised as payment.”

Jack: “That’s… optimistic.”

Jeeny: “It’s human.”

Host: The words lingered like a slow exhale. Jack rubbed his temples, his fingers tracing invisible patterns of doubt. The screens dimmed automatically, leaving only the faint glow of the city on his face.

Jack: “You might be right. Maybe it’s not about scarcity. Maybe it’s about connection — the invisible contract between maker and user. A silent handshake.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every transaction carries a trace of humanity. Even in the most digital world, people are still reaching for each other.”

Host: The rain began to fade, replaced by the distant echo of dripping water from the rooftops. A cool breeze slipped through the slightly open window, carrying the scent of wet concrete and something else — renewal.

Jack: “So maybe what amazes Budge — and me — isn’t that people buy software, but that they still believe in creators at all.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that belief is the last proof that we haven’t become machines.”

Host: The storm ended with a sigh. The city exhaled. Jack leaned back, eyes distant but softer now, while Jeeny smiled faintly, her reflection in the window blending with the dawn that began to glow beyond it.

A single ray of light slipped through the clouds, striking the pile of discs and devices on the desk, scattering colors across the room like small, defiant hopes.

Host: The machines hummed again. The world kept spinning. And somewhere, unseen, a quiet exchange — between maker and user, between creation and gratitude — continued to keep it alive.