I think music should be free. I think all communication should be

Host: The city was alive with sound, but not the kind you could buy. The streets throbbed with distant basslines leaking from open windows, car stereos murmuring rebellion, street performers bending rhythm from air. Midnight had fallen like a curtain — velvet, electric, infinite.

At the corner of an old brick warehouse, a group of buskers played beneath a flickering sign. The beat was rough but honest, carried on sweat, breath, and devotion.

Jack stood at the edge of the small crowd, hands in his pockets, a cigarette glowing like a firefly between his fingers. Beside him, Jeeny swayed softly to the rhythm, her long black hair catching the streetlight, her eyes closed in quiet communion with the music.

Behind them, graffiti on the wall spelled one word: “FREEDOM.”

Jeeny: (smiling, eyes still closed) “KRS-One once said, ‘I think music should be free. I think all communication should be free. I think people should respect artists, and there should be a certain respect for artists who give their music away for free.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “He said that back when record labels still thought they were gods.”

Jeeny: (opening her eyes) “And now?”

Jack: (exhaling smoke) “Now the gods are algorithms.”

Host: The band played louder. The saxophonist hit a wrong note, laughed, and kept going. A small child clapped off-beat, unashamed, and the crowd cheered anyway. Somewhere nearby, a street vendor fried something fragrant, the smell mingling with the air’s rhythm.

Jeeny: (softly) “He wasn’t just talking about music, though. He meant the whole idea of expression. Truth without a price tag.”

Jack: (nodding, watching the players) “Yeah, but the world doesn’t run on truth. It runs on transactions. You give, they take. You share, they sell.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe that’s why artists keep giving anyway. Not because they don’t know — but because they still believe someone out there is listening for the right reasons.”

Host: A man with a guitar case open before him sang with cracked voice, his words cutting through the noise — something about love, loss, and rent overdue. Coins clinked softly as people passed. Some gave. Most didn’t.

Jack: (quietly) “Music’s like faith. Everyone wants it, but no one wants to pay the price of reverence.”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “Maybe reverence isn’t money. Maybe it’s attention. Listening with your heart open instead of your wallet.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “That’s poetic. But tell that to the guy trying to buy strings tomorrow.”

Jeeny: (shrugging) “Maybe he’ll earn them back in faith tonight.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the street, carrying with it echoes of laughter, the scent of oil and rain, the low hum of a thousand unseen speakers. The music faltered for a second as the drummer dropped a stick, but the rhythm picked up again, defiant and imperfect — like life itself.

Jack: (after a pause) “You ever wonder why people think art should be free, but artists should still starve with dignity?”

Jeeny: (gazing at the band) “Because people confuse value with cost. They think what feeds the soul should feed the stomach too.”

Jack: (grinning) “And it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Not unless the soul eats applause.”

Host: The music shifted to a softer groove, blues giving way to a lazy jazz riff. A few couples started dancing in the wet street, shoes sliding over the puddles like improvised choreography. For a moment, the whole block felt alive — like a community rediscovering itself through rhythm.

Jeeny: (watching, her voice full of wonder) “Look at them. None of them paid to be here. No tickets, no playlists, no curated algorithm. Just presence. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Yeah. That’s the kind of worth you can’t invoice.”

Host: The cigarette burned down, the ash dropping onto the cracked pavement. Jack’s gaze softened — not in surrender, but in recognition.

Jack: (quietly) “KRS-One wanted freedom. But freedom’s messy. You can’t copyright it. You can’t own it. It’s the one song the world keeps trying to remix until it loses the melody.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Then maybe it’s our job to keep singing it right.”

Host: The streetlights flickered, reflecting in her eyes like fire. Jack looked at her — at the way she stood open to the night, letting its sounds move through her as if she were part of the rhythm herself.

Jack: (softly, almost to himself) “You think giving art away changes anything?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “It already has. Every song that’s ever been sung without asking for something back — that’s how humanity remembers itself.”

Host: The guitarist’s final chord hung in the air, vibrating long after the sound had gone. The small crowd applauded, their claps out of sync but full of sincerity. The man smiled, nodded, and started again — because the night wasn’t done, and neither was he.

Jack: (after a long silence) “Maybe that’s it, huh? The artist gives. The world takes. But somewhere in between, someone gets saved.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Exactly. That’s the real payment — salvation by sound.”

Host: The night shifted softer, the noise of the city blending into music’s ghost. The rain began again — gentle, rhythmic, like percussion from the heavens.

And as they stood there, listening to the world remake its own song, KRS-One’s words rose like an anthem — not of rebellion, but of communion:

That music was never a product —
it was a prayer,
a bridge,
a confession whispered through rhythm.

That communication — real, raw, and free —
is the soul’s language,
meant to be shared,
not sold.

That respect for the artist
is not measured in money,
but in how deeply you let their sound
change you.

Host: The band played on, the rain keeping tempo,
and the city — for one brief, perfect moment —
listened.

Jack and Jeeny stood side by side,
no longer debating,
just breathing in the truth of it:

That what is freely given
is never truly lost.