It's okay to eat fish because they don't have any feelings.

Host: The night was low and heavy, hanging like smoke above a half-lit apartment that smelled faintly of cigarettes, spilled whiskey, and rain. An old record player spun slowly in the corner — the crackle of vinyl and the ghost of Nirvana’s Something in the Way filling the dim air with melancholy.

The lamp by the window flickered, catching the pale gleam of the city outside — blurred lights and quiet chaos.

Jack sat cross-legged on the floor, his hands wrapped around a cold mug of coffee, eyes fixed on the ashtray beside him. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the couch, barefoot, hair loose, a small smirk playing at her lips as the song hummed between them.

The Host’s voice slipped into the scene like a whisper through a cracked door — soft, reflective, and raw.

Host: There are nights when irony sounds like confession — when words meant in jest reveal something broken beneath. And in that fragile balance between humor and despair, truth hums like a low guitar string, trembling but alive.

Jeeny: quietly, with a faint smile “Kurt Cobain once said, ‘It’s okay to eat fish because they don’t have any feelings.’”

Jack: half-laughing, shaking his head “Yeah. Classic Cobain — brilliant, bitter, and broken all in one sentence.”

Jeeny: softly “You think he meant it as a joke?”

Jack: sighs, glancing at the record player “Maybe. But his jokes were always half-truths. That’s what made them hurt.”

Jeeny: frowning slightly “You think he was talking about empathy?”

Jack: nods slowly “About the lack of it. The world numbs itself — convinces itself that something without a voice can’t feel pain.”

Jeeny: leaning forward, voice tender “Or maybe he was talking about himself.”

Jack: looks up, surprised “What do you mean?”

Jeeny: her tone soft, almost fragile “Maybe he felt like the fish — floating through a world that watched him but didn’t feel him. Everyone adored the surface, but no one saw the drowning.”

Jack: quietly, after a long pause “You think fame does that? Turns you into something everyone consumes, without caring if you’re alive inside?”

Jeeny: nodding “Yes. The irony is cruel. He gave the world his pain in melody — and they bought it like candy.”

Jack: gruffly “That’s not empathy. That’s extraction.”

Host: The rain began again, tapping against the windowpane like the rhythm of an old drum — slow, patient, mournful. The sound filled the silence between their words, like the world itself was listening.

Jeeny: after a moment, softly “I think that quote wasn’t about fish. It was about how we justify indifference. How we tell ourselves something doesn’t hurt, so we can keep doing what hurts it.”

Jack: takes a drag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke like a sigh “Yeah. That’s humanity’s greatest trick — moral anesthesia.”

Jeeny: gently “But empathy isn’t easy, Jack. Feeling everything can drown you too.”

Jack: nods, quietly “Maybe that’s why he envied the fish. They don’t have to feel — they just exist.”

Jeeny: whispers “Maybe he was tired of feeling.”

Jack: his voice breaking slightly “Yeah… maybe.”

Host: The song on the record ended. The needle scraped softly against the silence. The sound was almost soothing — a reminder that even endings have texture.

Jeeny: looking at Jack, voice trembling “Do you think numbness is peace?”

Jack: after a pause “No. Numbness is just pain that forgot how to scream.”

Jeeny: softly “Then what’s peace?”

Jack: staring into the smoke curling from his cigarette “Maybe it’s what he was searching for in his music — a way to turn agony into sound, so it doesn’t eat you alive.”

Jeeny: nodding “He didn’t want to escape feeling. He wanted to escape being consumed by it.”

Jack: quietly “And the world mistook his sensitivity for weakness.”

Jeeny: gently “The world always does.”

Host: The lamp flickered again. A moth fluttered against the glass — soft wings hitting light, again and again, mistaking heat for salvation.

Jack: smiling sadly “You know, I get him — the way he used irony as armor. It’s easier to joke about feeling nothing than to admit how much you actually care.”

Jeeny: softly “He wore pain like poetry.”

Jack: whispers “And died from how beautiful it sounded.”

Jeeny: closing her eyes briefly “There’s a strange nobility in that — feeling too deeply for a world that values numbness.”

Jack: quietly “Or a tragedy in never learning how to live with the ache.”

Jeeny: opening her eyes, steady now “Maybe the point isn’t to live without ache. Maybe it’s to feel it and still choose to sing.”

Jack: smirking faintly through the smoke “You think singing saves you?”

Jeeny: with conviction “No. But it reminds you you’re still alive.”

Jack: sighs “Even if no one’s listening?”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Especially then.”

Host: The rain grew louder now — insistent, rhythmic, alive. It filled the room like percussion, like applause from a universe that understood sorrow better than joy.

The record spun again — Cobain’s voice, distant and raw, rose once more. His words, half mumbled, half screamed, filled the small room like confession: “I wish I was like you — easily amused.”

Jack: barely above a whisper “Maybe that’s what he meant — the world eats fish because they don’t feel. But the ones who do feel... get eaten alive.”

Jeeny: reaching out, gently touching his hand “And yet, we keep feeling. We keep caring. We keep breaking and rebuilding.”

Jack: looks at her, eyes wet in the low light “Because what’s the alternative?”

Jeeny: softly “Silence.”

Host: The camera would pull back — the window fogged, the record spinning, the candle on the table flickering lower and lower until it was just smoke and shadow. The world outside was still raining, still moving, still unaware of the quiet storm within.

Host: Kurt Cobain once said, “It’s okay to eat fish because they don’t have any feelings.”
And perhaps he meant it as irony — or a wish.
For to feel deeply in a world built on indifference
is to live in a constant ache.

Yet within that ache lies the last proof of humanity:
to suffer, and still sing.
To break, and still create beauty.
To feel everything,
and refuse to stop.

Host: The needle lifted; the room fell silent.
And in that silence — fragile, human, infinite —
the truth lingered:
It is not the numb who survive,
but the ones who dare to feel,
even when it hurts.