In the television age, the key distinction is between the

Host: The television studio was a cathedral of light — rows of cameras like silent witnesses, red recording bulbs burning like tiny unblinking eyes. The floor gleamed with the reflection of stage lights, and the air carried the faint scent of electric heat, powder makeup, and the metallic hum of power.

Host: It was long after the broadcast ended. The applause had died. The chairs on the set were empty now, except for two figures: Jack, still wearing his earpiece, his tie loosened; and Jeeny, perched on the edge of the host’s desk, heels off, coffee cup in hand. The silence after spectacle always felt heavier than the noise before it.

Jeeny: (reading from a notecard left on the desk) “Richard Nixon once said, ‘In the television age, the key distinction is between the candidate who can speak poetry and the one who can only speak prose.’”
(She tilts her head.) “It’s wild, isn’t it? He said that decades ago — and yet it feels like prophecy. The man who lost to a camera knew exactly why.”

Jack: (smirking) “Yeah. Nixon didn’t lose to Kennedy. He lost to lighting.”

Jeeny: “And to rhythm. Kennedy spoke like a song. Nixon spoke like a memo.”

Jack: “That’s what television did to politics — it turned ideas into performances.”

Jeeny: “Not just politics, Jack. Everything. Truth became an aesthetic.”

Host: The lights dimmed to half-power, casting long shadows across the empty stage. The giant teleprompter, still glowing faintly, displayed the last word of the night’s script: HOPE.

Jack: “You know, Nixon was right — television rewarded poetry. But not real poetry. Just rhythm that sounds like conviction.”

Jeeny: “You mean — style without depth?”

Jack: “Exactly. Authenticity repackaged in high definition.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the tragedy. Because poetry, real poetry, burns slower. It makes you think, not just react.”

Host: The studio hum filled the space again — the faint buzz of machines cooling, cameras still warm from the light of illusion.

Jack: “I watched the old debate once — Kennedy and Nixon, 1960. Kennedy looked like the future. Nixon looked like a confession. Same words, different temperature.”

Jeeny: “Because Kennedy understood television wasn’t about information. It was about intimacy. About making millions feel like you were speaking to them, not at them.”

Jack: “And that’s the beginning of the end for prose. Facts couldn’t compete with feeling.”

Host: Jeeny walked toward one of the cameras, peering into its dark glass lens. Her reflection stared back — slightly warped, framed in static light.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder, Jack, if democracy changed the day cameras arrived? When the message stopped being what was said — and became how it looked being said?”

Jack: “That’s not democracy. That’s theater.”

Jeeny: “And theater’s older than government.”

Jack: “Which means we were always doomed to confuse sincerity with stagecraft.”

Host: The monitors flickered overhead, replaying fragments of the night’s broadcast — faces smiling, hands shaking, slogans spoken with mechanical warmth.

Jeeny: “We’re still living in Nixon’s television age. Only now, everyone’s a candidate — everyone curates their life in poetic fragments. Instagram captions. Campaigns of self.”

Jack: “Yeah. Every selfie’s a speech. Every post, a plea for election.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “And what’s the office? Validation.”

Jack: “And what’s the opposition? Silence.”

Host: A faint laugh echoed from the hallway — the cleaning crew, unaware they were walking through the ruins of what used to be sincerity.

Jeeny: “You think Nixon was bitter when he said that line?”

Jack: “No. He was observant. The man understood optics better than he understood himself. He knew the tragedy of his era — that truth without rhythm dies unheard.”

Jeeny: “That’s haunting. The idea that honesty needs a soundtrack to survive.”

Jack: “It’s worse than that. It means substance alone isn’t enough anymore. You have to sell it beautifully or it doesn’t count.”

Host: The sound of the rain outside grew louder, tapping the studio’s roof in steady, echoing rhythm — the real world insisting on its own quiet poetry.

Jeeny: “You know, I teach communication. I tell my students the same thing every term: ‘In the 21st century, the truth is only as believable as its lighting.’”

Jack: “That’s terrifying, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “It should be. We’ve turned sincerity into set design.”

Host: She moved closer to him, her voice softer now, almost regretful.

Jeeny: “But maybe Nixon wasn’t just talking about politics. Maybe he was talking about people. The ones who speak in prose — direct, unadorned, clumsy — they get overlooked. The poetic ones? They get remembered.”

Jack: “Until the illusion cracks.”

Jeeny: “And then the prose people pick up the pieces.”

Jack: “That’s the balance of history. Poets build dreams. Pragmatists clean up afterward.”

Host: The flickering screen behind them switched off completely, plunging the room into deeper shadow. Only the soft blue glow of emergency lights remained.

Jeeny: “Do you think we’ve ever had a leader who could do both — speak poetry and live prose?”

Jack: “Lincoln, maybe. Obama tried. Churchill came close. But it’s rare. Most who speak beautifully can’t endure the silence after applause.”

Jeeny: “And those who endure it rarely know how to move a crowd.”

Jack: (quietly) “So maybe we’re doomed to choose between inspiration and integrity.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe — we just keep hoping someone will remind us they can be the same thing.”

Host: The rainlight through the glass shimmered across their faces, distorting, softening — as if the world outside was trying to wash away the artificial glow within.

Jack: “Funny thing, though — Nixon thought the television age would stay about candidates. But now everyone’s performing. Everyone’s auditioning for empathy.”

Jeeny: “And no one’s listening unless it’s entertaining.”

Jack: “We used to read speeches. Now we watch reels.”

Jeeny: “We used to crave wisdom. Now we crave watch time.”

Host: She laughed softly, though it sounded like mourning disguised as amusement.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, I think Nixon’s distinction between poetry and prose isn’t about how you speak — it’s about whether people still feel when they hear you. The tragedy is, we’ve made feeling the enemy of thinking.”

Jack: “And thinking, the enemy of attention.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain outside softened into drizzle. The faint buzz of the lights steadied. The studio — empty, hollow, but sacred in its own way — seemed to inhale the last of their words.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You know, maybe the television age wasn’t a curse. Maybe it just reminded us that beauty without truth seduces, and truth without beauty disappears.”

Jeeny: “So the real art is balance — between the lyric and the literal.”

Jack: “Between Nixon and Kennedy.”

Jeeny: “Between poetry and prose.”

Host: She smiled faintly, looking up at the cameras one last time — the unblinking eyes now watching nothing.

Jeeny: “Funny, isn’t it? Even now, we’re sitting here in the dark — still speaking for an invisible audience.”

Jack: “Because that’s what humans do. We perform, even when no one’s watching. We tell stories to prove we still exist.”

Host: The rain stopped. The world outside went still.

And in that fragile silence — between the hum of the machines and the whisper of their fading breath — Richard Nixon’s words echoed like a mirror turned toward the modern world:

that in every televised age,
politics becomes performance,
truth becomes tone,
and humanity itself becomes a story
measured not by accuracy,
but by appeal.

Host: The cameras stayed off, but the room still glowed faintly — as if the air remembered what it had witnessed.

Jack stood, his silhouette outlined by the dying light.

Jack: (softly) “Maybe someday we’ll go back to prose.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Only if we remember how to read silence.”

Host: And with that, they walked out — two figures leaving the flicker of illusion behind.

Outside, the rain began again,
falling like unspoken verse
across a city still addicted
to its own reflection.