I think people who are not rich can be extremely happy. And I

Host: The sunset bled over the city skyline, that kind of warm orange light that made even the concrete look alive. From the high terrace café, you could see the pulse of the world below — screens glowing in every window, people bent over their phones, cars gliding like fragments of light.

Jack and Jeeny sat at a small metal table, steam rising from their coffee cups. A faint breeze carried the sound of street musicians playing a hopeful tune on the corner below.

The city felt — in its strange, humming way — alive with possibility.

Jeeny: “You know what Tyler Cowen said? ‘I think people who are not rich can be extremely happy. And I think the chances to be happy in this new world — with many more opportunities to be creative, to be online, to educate yourself — there'll be a lot more chances to be happy. It’s not to say everyone will take them, but there will be a lot of new paths to opportunity.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Ah, the economist of optimism. That’s rare.”

Jeeny: “Rare — but refreshing. He’s right, though. The world’s changing. For all the chaos, there’s never been more ways to create something, learn something, or connect.”

Jack: (staring out over the city) “Yeah, but opportunity isn’t the same as happiness. Having a million paths doesn’t matter if you’re too tired — or too afraid — to walk down one.”

Host: The light shifted, painting their faces in gold and shadow. The hum of the city below grew louder as night began to settle. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes alive with thought.

Jeeny: “But don’t you see? That’s what he meant — that happiness isn’t about what we’re given; it’s about what we choose. The world used to trap people — one job, one city, one definition of success. Now you can build something from a bedroom. You can teach yourself a language at midnight. You can reach anyone.”

Jack: “You make it sound like the internet is salvation.”

Jeeny: “Not salvation — liberation. A different kind of freedom. Not from governments or poverty, but from limits.”

Jack: “Freedom can be overwhelming, Jeeny. Too many choices and people freeze. You call it liberation, I call it anxiety with Wi-Fi.”

Host: A laugh escaped her lips, light and sudden, but her expression softened right after — like the laughter had been a crack in something more serious.

Jeeny: “You’re not wrong. But isn’t that the human condition? The old world trapped us in scarcity. The new one drowns us in possibility. The trick is learning to float.”

Jack: “And what if people don’t? What if they sink? You think everyone’s built to adapt?”

Jeeny: “No. But everyone can learn. That’s what Cowen was saying — opportunity doesn’t guarantee happiness, but it gives it more room to exist.”

Jack: (leaning back) “You sound like you believe in this digital utopia.”

Jeeny: “No. I believe in potential. I believe in what people can become when they’re given space to create instead of just consume.”

Host: The sky deepened into indigo, city lights flickering alive like tiny promises. Down below, a street performer started singing an old folk song — something about hope and hunger.

Jack: “You think happiness is something we can design now? Build like an app?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think it’s something we can stumble into more often — if we stop chasing old dreams and start building new ones.”

Jack: “You mean stop equating happiness with wealth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. There’s a new kind of richness now — the richness of access, of knowledge, of connection. You can be broke and still wake up to a world full of meaning. If you’re curious enough.”

Jack: (smirking) “You make curiosity sound like currency.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. It’s the only wealth that can’t collapse.”

Host: The wind picked up, fluttering the papers on the table. Jack caught one — a sketch Jeeny had been working on. A small drawing of faces in profile — connected by lines like constellations.

Jack: (looking at it) “You’ve been drawing again.”

Jeeny: (shrugging) “Every night. I post them online. People I’ll never meet write to say they see themselves in them. That’s worth something.”

Jack: “You think that’s happiness?”

Jeeny: “It’s connection. And connection is happiness in disguise.”

Host: A small pause followed. The sound of traffic below merged with the music, the laughter, the occasional siren — a modern symphony of chaos and life.

Jack: “You know what I envy about your generation?”

Jeeny: “What’s that?”

Jack: “You actually believe things can get better. My generation built the system that made everyone chase status. Yours is trying to rebuild the soul.”

Jeeny: “And we’re using memes to do it.”

Jack: (laughing) “God help us all.”

Jeeny: “Maybe He already has — in small ways. A teacher giving a free course online. An artist from a forgotten town reaching millions. A scientist finding answers with strangers halfway across the world. This new world isn’t perfect, Jack. But it’s porous — and that’s how light gets in.”

Host: The city glow painted the terrace now, a mixture of digital blues and warm yellows. Jack watched her for a long moment, something almost hopeful creeping into his eyes.

Jack: “You really think people can be happy without wealth?”

Jeeny: “I think wealth can’t buy what most people are missing — time, purpose, belonging.”

Jack: “So what’s the currency of this new world, then?”

Jeeny: “Attention. And intention. What you notice, and what you build from it.”

Host: The wind died down. Somewhere below, a child’s laughter echoed, sharp and brief, cutting through the city noise like a perfect note. Jack looked toward it, his expression softening.

Jack: “Maybe Cowen’s right. Maybe happiness isn’t scarce anymore. Just misplaced.”

Jeeny: “And maybe all we need to do is look up once in a while — away from the screens — and notice that it’s still there.”

Jack: “That’s the trick, isn’t it? Balancing the noise with the beauty.”

Jeeny: “That’s the new art form.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the two of them small against the vast electric sprawl of the city. The lights below pulsed like veins, proof of life and movement and endless human reach.

Their conversation, carried on the breeze, was almost drowned out by the hum of a connected world — yet somehow, in that moment, it mattered more than the noise itself.

Because Tyler Cowen’s truth lingered between them — quiet, luminous, possible:

That the world’s wealth isn’t measured in dollars anymore,
but in ideas shared, hearts awakened, and doors opened.

And that happiness, still fragile but multiplying,
belongs not to the richest,
but to those who choose to create,
to connect,
and to keep believing there’s something beautiful yet to be built.