If work and leisure are soon to be subordinated to this one

Host: The office building towered over the sleeping city, its glass façade reflecting a thousand sterile stars. The clock struck midnight, but the windows were still lit — a hive of glowing rectangles in the sky, each one housing a screen, a soul, and the slow erosion of silence.

Host: Inside, the air hummed — computers cooling, air vents whispering, keyboards tapping in arrhythmic communion. The floor was nearly empty now, except for two figures left behind in the corporate afterglow: Jack, hunched over his laptop, eyes dulled by light; and Jeeny, leaning against a desk, her coffee gone cold hours ago.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Günter Grass once said, ‘If work and leisure are soon to be subordinated to this one utopian principle — absolute busyness — then utopia and melancholy will come to coincide: an age without conflict will dawn, perpetually busy — and without consciousness.’”
(She exhales.) “He could’ve been describing us, couldn’t he?”

Jack: (without looking up) “Us? He was describing everyone. We live in the empire of busyness now. No kings, no gods — just calendars.”

Jeeny: “And meetings.”

Jack: “And inboxes. And to-do lists written in blood and caffeine.”

Host: The air conditioner groaned, blowing artificial wind across artificial peace. Outside, rain began to fall — silent streaks of silver sliding down the window like the handwriting of ghosts.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? We used to think utopia meant peace. Harmony. Now it just means efficiency.”

Jack: (finally closing his laptop) “Yeah. We optimized ourselves right out of awareness.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Grass meant — an age without conflict. Not because we’ve solved anything, but because no one’s awake enough to notice the problems anymore.”

Jack: “No rebellion, no reflection. Just perpetual motion. Like hamsters with Wi-Fi.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Do you ever stop to think why we do it? Why we worship busyness like it’s proof of worth?”

Jack: “Because emptiness terrifies us. If we stop, we might hear our own thoughts — and half of us wouldn’t know what to do with them.”

Host: The rain hit harder, drumming softly against the glass — a kind of music the modern world had long forgotten how to listen to.

Jeeny: “You think we chose this? Or did the world choose it for us?”

Jack: “It started as survival. Then it became identity. Now it’s faith.”

Jeeny: “Faith in what?”

Jack: “In motion itself. As long as we’re moving, we can pretend we’re progressing.”

Host: A printer came to life somewhere in the corner, spitting out pages into the dark. It startled them both — a sudden reminder that even machines dream of relevance.

Jeeny: “You know, I read that the average person today checks their phone over three hundred times a day. That’s three hundred tiny proofs of existence.”

Jack: “Micro-affirmations. Little electric nods from the void.”

Jeeny: “But each one takes a piece of us. It’s like consciousness on layaway.”

Jack: “Grass was right. We traded awareness for momentum. We don’t even think in full sentences anymore — just notifications.”

Host: The lights flickered — once, twice — before steadying again. Even electricity seemed tired.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder what it would feel like to live slowly again? To wake up without urgency? To work because it mattered, not because it’s scheduled?”

Jack: “I don’t think we’d know how. Slowness would feel like suffocation now. We’ve rewired ourselves for panic.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “Anxiety as evolution.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: She moved to the window, her reflection merging with the city’s — one ghost among many. Below them, the streets pulsed with headlights. Delivery trucks. Late-night taxis. People carrying exhaustion like briefcases.

Jeeny: “Sometimes I envy the people who lived before all this. They had time to think, to be bored, to let the mind wander.”

Jack: “Now boredom’s a crime. We call it unproductive.”

Jeeny: “And productivity’s just slavery with better branding.”

Jack: (smiling wryly) “At least our chains are wireless.”

Host: She laughed softly, but the sound faded quickly, swallowed by the mechanical hum.

Jeeny: “You know, Grass was a novelist. He understood time. He understood that the human soul needs stillness to imagine. Without it — what are we? Just workers pretending to be alive?”

Jack: “Consumers pretending to be free.”

Jeeny: “And artists pretending to be busy.”

Jack: “Because if we stop pretending, we might have to feel the emptiness we’ve built.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked toward one a.m., its sound barely audible over the low hum of fluorescent lights.

Jeeny: “You ever feel like we’re living inside a poem that forgot its rhythm?”

Jack: “No — we’re living inside a spreadsheet that forgot its purpose.”

Jeeny: “Same thing.”

Jack: (nodding) “Exactly the same thing.”

Host: The rain softened to a whisper now, the rhythm matching their breathing. The city lights blurred into streaks of color, beautiful and distant — a watercolor of exhaustion and yearning.

Jeeny: “Do you think this will ever change? The cult of busyness?”

Jack: “Only when the system collapses. Or when people start remembering they’re not machines.”

Jeeny: “That might take a while.”

Jack: “We’ve already been waiting too long.”

Host: She turned from the window, her face illuminated by the blue glow of a single screen still awake on her desk. The screen showed an unfinished presentation. The cursor blinked — patient, rhythmic, like a heartbeat counting down.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, I think Grass was warning us. Not just about work — about leisure, too. Even our rest is industrialized now. Vacations have itineraries. Relaxation has metrics. We even measure our happiness.”

Jack: “And post it for validation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’ve turned joy into content.”

Jack: “And peace into performance.”

Host: He closed his laptop completely now and leaned back, staring at the ceiling — the endless grid of white panels, each one hiding a light that never truly slept.

Jack: “You know what I miss most?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Days that felt like days. Not tasks.”

Jeeny: “And nights that felt like rest.”

Jack: “Not countdowns.”

Host: A long silence followed — the kind that used to exist before the world started measuring everything in minutes and likes.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Do you think it’s too late to wake up?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe not. But it’ll take courage to stop moving. Stillness feels like rebellion now.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe rebellion is the only real consciousness left.”

Host: The rain stopped. The city breathed. The hum of the lights softened, as if surrendering to their stillness.

And in that moment — two weary souls beneath the glow of a sleepless world — Günter Grass’s warning felt less like prophecy and more like confession:

that absolute busyness
is not progress,
but paralysis dressed in movement;
that a world without conflict
is not peace,
but numbness;
and that the truest danger
is not exhaustion,
but the slow, silent death
of awareness.

Host: The lights flicked off, one by one. The hum faded.

Jack and Jeeny stood in the quiet glow of the emergency light — the only honest illumination left.

Jack: “Let’s go home.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “And do nothing?”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: They walked out together — two figures leaving the empire of productivity behind.

Outside, the rain-washed air felt cleaner,
and the silence — heavy, sacred —
finally sounded like freedom.