In fact, it will be very easy to climb the building because of

Host: The city at dawn was a sculpture of glass and ambition — its towers shimmering in the rising light like blades of light piercing the morning mist. Below, traffic murmured softly, unaware that above them, one man stood on the edge of gravity’s patience.

Jack adjusted his climbing gloves, his eyes fixed upward toward the mirrored facade of the skyscraper towering above him. The building seemed endless, stretching into the pale clouds — an altar to human arrogance, a playground for someone like him. Jeeny stood a few meters back, a camera slung around her neck, her expression torn between admiration and dread.

She spoke with that quiet disbelief that always follows someone about to defy reason.

“In fact, it will be very easy to climb the building because of its shape and architecture.” — Alain Robert

Jeeny: (incredulous) “Easy? That’s what he said? Easy? You call hanging off a three-hundred-meter sheet of glass easy?”

Jack: (grinning) “To someone like him, it is. Alain Robert doesn’t see buildings. He sees puzzles — problems that want to be solved.”

Jeeny: “That’s not confidence. That’s madness wrapped in muscle.”

Jack: “Maybe. But madness is just another name for courage that doesn’t ask permission.”

Jeeny: “Or the arrogance of thinking you’re invincible.”

Jack: “No — the humility of knowing you’re not, and doing it anyway.”

Host: The sun climbed higher, light spreading across the skyscraper’s mirrored surface until it looked like liquid fire. The wind carried the low hum of the waking city, its pulse growing beneath them. Somewhere far below, someone laughed, someone honked, someone hurried to work — oblivious to the drama about to unfold above their heads.

Jeeny: “So you think this is art? Climbing a building?”

Jack: “Of course it is. Architecture gives us the illusion of permanence. Climbers like Robert remind us that even steel can be touched.”

Jeeny: “Touched — or defied?”

Jack: “Same thing. Every climb is defiance wrapped in faith. He’s not fighting the building. He’s conversing with it.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you envy him.”

Jack: (pausing) “Maybe I do. He risks everything just to feel the world beneath his fingers. Most of us risk nothing and still call it living.”

Host: The wind picked up, fluttering Jeeny’s hair and scattering a few paper notes she’d been holding. Jack caught one before it flew away — a map of the building’s surface, dotted with handholds and architectural edges.

He smiled.

Jack: “See this? It’s not chaos. It’s choreography. He studies every line, every groove, every angle of reflection. What looks impossible is just pattern recognition to him.”

Jeeny: “So risk becomes logic.”

Jack: “Exactly. The body becomes geometry. Fear becomes physics.”

Jeeny: “But the fall — that’s still fatal.”

Jack: “Yes. But the climb — that’s immortal.”

Host: The city’s noise swelled now — horns, footsteps, the distant sound of construction. Above them, the skyscraper shimmered like a mirror of heaven, reflecting the clouds and the restless human dream of height.

Jeeny: “Why do people like him do it, Jack? What’s worth that kind of danger? A headline? An adrenaline rush?”

Jack: “No. It’s about communion. Some people go to temples to find meaning. Others go vertical.”

Jeeny: “So the skyscraper becomes a cathedral?”

Jack: “Exactly. And every inch of ascent — a prayer.”

Jeeny: “And every mistake?”

Jack: “A confession.”

Host: The light shifted, catching the glass surface of the tower. The edges gleamed like silver threads against the sky. The building seemed alive — breathing, shimmering, waiting.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder what drives someone to climb something that could kill them?”

Jack: “Maybe it’s the same thing that drives artists, poets, anyone who creates — the need to touch something beyond themselves.”

Jeeny: “Or to escape what’s within themselves.”

Jack: “Maybe both. When you’re up there, hundreds of meters above the noise, you see how small everything is — the traffic, the deadlines, the lies we live by. For a moment, the world shrinks, and truth expands.”

Jeeny: “Until gravity reminds you what you are.”

Jack: “And that’s the point. He climbs not to escape gravity, but to understand it. To honor it.”

Host: The first few spectators began to gather below, pointing upward, phones raised. The murmurs spread like ripples. The climber — small now, a moving dot of color against steel — had begun his ascent.

Jeeny: “He’s insane.”

Jack: “No. He’s awake.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s the same thing?”

Jack: “Sometimes. Most people sleep through life at ground level. He chooses to live with the wind as witness.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when he falls?”

Jack: “Then he joins the architects who built this — men who also believed the sky was negotiable.”

Jeeny: “That’s a poetic way to describe death.”

Jack: “Death is inevitable. Regret isn’t.”

Host: The crowd below gasped as the figure paused halfway up, clinging to a thin ledge, his body outlined against the sky. To them, he was a speck of defiance. To himself, perhaps — a heartbeat between earth and eternity.

Jeeny: “You know, he said it was easy. That’s what haunts me. The word easy. How can something so dangerous feel easy to anyone?”

Jack: “Because when you’re aligned with your purpose, fear stops being friction — it becomes focus.”

Jeeny: “So peace can exist even in risk.”

Jack: “Especially in risk. Repose isn’t safety — it’s clarity. The calm inside chaos.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe he’s freer than any of us.”

Jack: “He is. He doesn’t own the world, but he touches it — fingertip by fingertip.”

Host: The sun broke through the clouds, bathing the glass in molten light. The climber neared the top — slow, deliberate, every motion a sermon on discipline.

The crowd below erupted when he reached the final ledge, standing for a moment with arms raised against the endless blue.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Do you think he feels powerful up there?”

Jack: “No. I think he feels small. And that’s the point — to touch the infinite and remember how finite you are.”

Jeeny: “So humility, not ego.”

Jack: “Exactly. The mountain climber conquers the peak. The urban climber surrenders to it.”

Jeeny: “And the city — it applauds from below, mistaking surrender for victory.”

Jack: “Because most people can’t tell the difference.”

Host: The wind softened, carrying with it the faint roar of applause. For a moment, the world seemed perfectly balanced — the man, the building, the sky. Then, as quickly as it began, he started his descent, vanishing from view, swallowed by the horizon.

The crowd dispersed, the noise fading back into ordinary time.

Jeeny: “He made it look effortless. But I suppose that’s what mastery really is — danger disguised as grace.”

Jack: “Exactly. The ease he spoke of wasn’t arrogance. It was intimacy. He knew the building — its shape, its language, its rhythm. That’s why it let him climb.”

Jeeny: “So the architecture itself invited him.”

Jack: “Yes. And he answered. Every artist does.”

Host: The city returned to its rhythm, the skyscraper gleaming as if nothing had happened — but it had. Somewhere, on its glass and steel skin, fingerprints remained — proof that even the impossible can be touched, if only for a moment.

And in that stillness, Alain Robert’s words echoed softly, like a dare whispered to the wind —

that true mastery is not defiance, but dialogue,
that the world’s tallest walls exist only to be understood,
and that to call the impossible easy
is not arrogance —
but the voice of one who has already made peace
with falling.

Host: The morning light deepened,
the tower shimmered,
and the world, for a heartbeat,
felt climbable.