If listeners aren't carried away to Heaven, I'm failing.

Host: The concert hall was a cathedral of silence, waiting for sound. Dim lights hovered like ghosts over rows of empty seats, and through the arched windows, the night pressed in — thick, blue, and almost sacred. A single lamp illuminated Jack, sitting cross-legged on the stage, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. Jeeny stood at the edge of the platform, her hair a dark wave, her eyes fixed on the grand piano that loomed like a sleeping beast.

Host: The air smelled of wood, dust, and electric tension — the kind that hums before the first note. The quote hung between them like a whispered spell: “If listeners aren’t carried away to Heaven, I’m failing.” La Monte Young. A challenge, a confession, a creed.

Jack: “Heaven,” huh? He said that like it was a destination on a map, not a metaphor. What does that even mean — carry someone to Heaven with sound? Sounds a little... self-indulgent.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Maybe not. Maybe it means that music, or any art, has a duty — to elevate us. To remind us there’s something beyond the routine, beyond the noise. When La Monte Young said that, he wasn’t talking about the Heaven in a church — he was talking about the Heaven inside you.

Host: A gust of wind slipped through the open doors, stirring paper, dust, and memories. The piano’s black surface caught the light, a mirror of their divided faces.

Jack: You talk about “Heaven inside us” like it’s real. But not everyone listens to music to transcend — most just want to escape. Put on headphones, block out the world, maybe forget their own thoughts. That’s not Heaven, Jeeny. That’s anesthesia.

Jeeny: (softly, but firmly) Maybe anesthesia is the first step. Sometimes you have to numb the pain before you can feel again. Isn’t that what art does? It takes us out of our ordinary state — even if it’s through escape. But that’s already lifting us. That’s already movement toward Heaven.

Host: Jack exhaled, the smoke curling like a question mark between them. The light flickered across his grey eyes, and for a brief second, the hard edges of his face softened.

Jack: You sound like you think artists are saints. They’re not. They’re just people — with egos, failures, and broken ideas. You think La Monte Young was reaching for Heaven? Maybe he just wanted to be remembered. That’s the real Heaven for most — legacy, not divinity.

Jeeny: (stepping closer) And yet, Jack, isn’t legacy itself a kind of Heaven? The moment your work lives beyond you — isn’t that transcendence? Think of Beethoven, deaf and alone, yet writing music that people still cry to two centuries later. He carried them somewhere they’d never been.

Host: The piano bench creaked as Jeeny sat, her fingers brushing the keys — not to play, but to feel their coldness, their weight. The silence between them thickened, like a living thing.

Jack: You always pick the idealist examples. Beethoven. Van Gogh. Saints of suffering. But what about now? What about pop stars lip-syncing to auto-tune and calling it spiritual? Are they “carrying” anyone anywhere — except to the next advertisement?

Jeeny: (eyes narrowing) Maybe the form has changed, but the yearning hasn’t. Even in that noise, people are searching for meaning. A girl crying at a concert, a boy finding comfort in a lyric — that’s still art doing its job. The artist’s intention isn’t the only bridge to Heaven; sometimes it’s the listener’s longing.

Host: Rain began to fall outside, tapping gently against the glass, like a metronome of the universe marking the rhythm of their argument. The sound of it echoed softly in the hall, blurring the line between silence and song.

Jack: So you’re saying it’s the listener who decides what’s Heaven, not the creator?

Jeeny: Exactly. The artist only opens the door — it’s the listener who walks through. La Monte Young could only build the pathway. The rest… belongs to whoever dares to follow.

Jack: (scoffing) That’s convenient. You give all the responsibility to the audience. So if they’re not “carried away,” it’s their fault?

Jeeny: No. It’s mutual. That’s what he meant — the artist must reach, must believe, must risk failure by aiming for Heaven. Because if they don’t aim that high, they’ll never rise at all. To fail in that attempt is still more noble than never trying.

Host: The rain grew louder, the rhythm merging with the hum of the city beyond the walls. The world outside was still moving — buses, sirens, laughter — all fragments of another music, another kind of striving.

Jack: You think failure is noble. I think it’s inevitable. Every artist believes they’re building a ladder to Heaven, but all they’re really building is an echo chamber. It’s self-worship dressed as devotion.

Jeeny: (voice trembling now) And yet, what if that self-worship is also a prayer? When you create — even out of ego — you still touch something sacred. You still form beauty. You still change people. Isn’t that divine, even in its imperfection?

Host: A pause. Her words hung in the air, fragile and electric. Jack’s jaw tightened, but his eyes softened with something unspoken — regret, maybe, or understanding.

Jack: You really think music can carry people to Heaven? Even when they don’t believe in Heaven?

Jeeny: Yes. Because Heaven isn’t belief. It’s experience. It’s that moment when you’re lost — in a note, in a sound, in love — and for a second, you’re free. You’ve left the Earth behind, even if you don’t know it.

Host: The rain slowed, fading into a soft drizzle. The air inside felt lighter now, as if the storm had washed something clean. Jeeny’s eyes glimmered with quiet conviction. Jack looked at her like a man remembering a dream.

Jack: You know, when I was a kid, my mother used to hum Chopin while washing dishes. We didn’t have much. But every time she did, I’d close my eyes, and the kitchen didn’t feel so small anymore. Maybe… maybe that was a kind of Heaven too.

Jeeny: (smiling gently) It was. And maybe La Monte Young would have said — that means his mission wasn’t failing.

Host: A silence followed, vast and tender. The lamp flickered, casting their shadows across the piano — one tall, one small, both trembling slightly, like two notes still vibrating after the song had ended.

Jack: (quietly) Maybe it’s not about getting to Heaven. Maybe it’s about reminding people it exists — even for a moment.

Jeeny: (softly) And that’s enough. Because that moment — that fleeting reminder — is what keeps us human.

Host: The rain stopped. Outside, the streetlights shimmered on wet pavement, turning the world into a thousand tiny reflections. Jeeny pressed a key on the piano — one note, long and trembling. It hung in the air, pure and infinite, as if time itself were listening.

Host: And in that fragile vibration, between sound and silence, between logic and longing, Heaven opened — not as a place, but as a feeling. And for a brief, beautiful instant, neither of them were failing.