Just as Darwin discovered the law of development of organic

Host: The factory lights burned low, casting long, amber streaks across the concrete floor. Outside, the rain fell in thin wires, tapping against rusted windowpanes; inside, the machines had gone quiet for the night — only the echo of labor’s breath remained, hanging in the air thick with oil and smoke.

Jack stood near the assembly line, his jacket slung over one shoulder, his hands blackened with work, his eyes sharp, grey, restless. Jeeny leaned against a metal column, her notebook open, hair messy, expression thoughtful.

Jeeny: “Friedrich Engels once said, ‘Just as Darwin discovered the law of development of organic nature, so Marx discovered the law of development of human history: the simple fact, hitherto concealed by an overgrowth of ideology, that mankind must first of all eat, drink, have shelter and clothing, before it can pursue politics, science, art, religion, etc.’”

Her voice carried softly through the empty space, where truth always sounded a little louder than intended.

Jeeny: “It’s humbling, isn’t it? That all our grand ideas still start with hunger.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You mean we can’t philosophize on an empty stomach?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t dream if you’re starving. That’s what Engels was saying — that before we build gods and governments, we have to build kitchens and roofs.”

Host: The wind pressed against the windows, the factory trembling faintly, as though even the building agreed. The clock ticked, steady and mechanical — a reminder that time itself was just another form of labor.

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? People worship ideas like freedom and art, but forget that both depend on full bellies and dry floors. You can’t write a symphony if your hands are shaking from hunger.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the contradiction, isn’t it? The people who make the food rarely get to enjoy the art. The ones who build the shelters often have none. Engels was right — progress starts with necessity, but it also eats its makers.”

Jack: (lighting a cigarette) “You sound like a Marxist tonight.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “I sound like someone who’s seen a grocery bill.”

Host: A small laugh escaped them both, echoing across the vast, silent space. The rain softened, becoming a hiss against the tin roof.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always thought that’s the problem with most revolutions — they start with the idea of feeding people and end with people feeding the idea.”

Jeeny: “Because power’s addictive. Once you’ve solved hunger, you start hungering for control. It’s human nature.”

Jack: “Darwin would say it’s survival. Engels would say it’s economics.”

Jeeny: “And I’d say it’s ego.”

Host: The smoke curled from Jack’s cigarette, rising like a ghost into the dim light. His eyes followed it upward — the slow, hypnotic drift of things that burn out while pretending to rise.

Jack: “I think what he meant — Engels, I mean — is that ideology blinds us. We start believing ideas matter more than the people they were made for.”

Jeeny: “Like capitalism, religion, patriotism — all these systems meant to unite us, but built on the backs of those still trying to survive.”

Jack: “And the irony is, those people don’t have time to debate ideology. They’re too busy working to keep the rest of us comfortable.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We discuss meaning over coffee while someone else picks the beans.”

Host: The factory lights flickered, then steadied, a faint hum returning to the machines — a reminder of the world’s constant, grinding pulse.

Jeeny: “You know, when Engels wrote that, he wasn’t trying to romanticize poverty. He was saying the opposite. He was calling out everyone who tried to decorate suffering with ideas.”

Jack: “Like how we tell the poor to be patient because heaven’s waiting, or the worker to be proud because labor’s noble. Anything to make inequality sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “We turn endurance into virtue so we can ignore injustice.”

Jack: “And the cruelest part? The system depends on that hope. It’s the quietest chain ever forged.”

Host: The rain had stopped, and the air outside cleared, revealing the city skyline in the distance — towers of glass reflecting faint stars, machines dreaming of heaven.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder what art would look like if everyone had enough? If no one was hungry, no one desperate — what kind of beauty would we create then?”

Jack: “Maybe none. Maybe art only exists because of struggle.”

Jeeny: “No. Art exists because of yearning. Struggle’s just the tax we’ve been taught to pay for it.”

Host: The silence deepened, the kind that asks for reflection, not response. Jack’s fingers traced the edge of his cigarette pack, his brow furrowed with that familiar mixture of fatigue and faith.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I thought history was about kings and wars. Nobody told me it was about bread.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “It always is. Bread and the people who can’t afford it.”

Jack: “And yet, people keep writing manifestos as if hunger reads philosophy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe philosophy should start reading hunger.”

Host: Her words lingered, like the faint hum of electricity that remains after the lights go out. Outside, a truck rumbled past, its headlights cutting across the windows — brief flashes of motion, of labor, of life still grinding forward.

Jack: “You think the world will ever change? That people will stop pretending ideas come before survival?”

Jeeny: “Change doesn’t come from pretending. It comes from remembering. Remembering that we all have the same first needs — to eat, to rest, to feel safe. Only after that do we earn the right to dream.”

Jack: “So humanity’s hierarchy starts with hunger and ends with hope.”

Jeeny: “If we’re lucky.”

Host: The clock struck midnight, the sound echoing through the vast emptiness. The two figures sat in that liminal space — between work and rest, between thought and exhaustion.

Jack: “You know, for all his talk of revolution, Engels sounded more human than political. He wasn’t just writing about systems. He was writing about dinner tables.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The politics of the stomach. The foundation of everything.”

Jack: “You think he’d laugh if he saw us now? Debating him over vending machine coffee in a factory built on the same problem he tried to fix?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Probably. And then he’d tell us to unionize.”

Host: They both laughed, softly, the kind of laughter that knows it’s half despair. The lights flickered once more, then dimmed, the machines sighing into stillness.

Outside, the first hint of dawn stretched across the sky, pale and fragile, but certain — the color of survival itself.

And as the scene faded, Engels’ words echoed in the air —
a reminder that before the heart can seek beauty,
before the mind can seek truth,
the body must first be allowed to live.

Because all revolutions, all art, all love
begin not with ideals,
but with hunger —
and the quiet, eternal dream
of a table where everyone eats.