Let's say intelligence is your ability to compose poetry

Host: The observatory sat on the hill like a forgotten temple of light, its dome half-open to a bruised evening sky. Inside, the faint hum of machinery mingled with the cold whisper of space. Star maps glowed faintly across glass panels, constellations blooming in digital blue.

Jack stood at the telescope, his silhouette framed against the stars — tall, lean, shadowed. Jeeny sat on the edge of a nearby control table, her dark hair catching the faint light from the monitors, her eyes alive with quiet wonder.

Outside, the universe unfolded in silence — infinite, merciless, and holy.

The Host’s voice entered softly, like a thought crossing galaxies.

Host: The night sky makes philosophers of us all. Beneath its vast indifference, every question feels both sacred and small. And in the trembling distance between atoms and stars, two voices rise — one seeking reason, the other, meaning.

Jeeny: gazing up, voice soft “Neil deGrasse Tyson once said, ‘Let’s say intelligence is your ability to compose poetry, symphonies, do art, math and science. Chimps can’t do any of that, yet we share 99 percent DNA. Everything that we are, that distinguishes us from chimps, emerges from that one-percent difference.’”

Jack: smirking faintly “One percent, huh? So all our wars, love songs, and philosophy — just a genetic rounding error.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “Maybe. Or maybe that one percent is the spark that makes us divine.”

Jack: snorts softly “Divine? Jeeny, it’s neurons, not miracles. The poetry’s just chemistry pretending to have feelings.”

Jeeny: turning toward him, amused “So you think the difference between us and a chimp is just… noise in the system?”

Jack: shrugs “Noise that learned how to build telescopes and destroy planets. Not sure that’s progress.”

Jeeny: softly, almost to herself “Maybe progress isn’t the point. Maybe the one percent isn’t about power — it’s about awareness.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “Awareness of what? Our own fragility?”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Exactly. A chimp doesn’t sit under the stars wondering why it exists. We do. That ache — that longing — that’s the cost of consciousness.”

Jack: quietly “Sounds like a bad deal.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Only if you see it as pain. I see it as privilege.”

Host: The telescope rotated, slow and deliberate, a great metal beast turning its gaze toward the heavens. A beam of starlight spilled across Jack’s face, catching in his grey eyes — cold, searching, infinite.

Jack: murmuring “You know what that one percent difference gave us? Guilt. Greed. Self-destruction. Chimps don’t build bombs or lie about love.”

Jeeny: softly, with fire in her voice “But they also don’t build symphonies. Or rescue strangers. Or stand in awe of beauty they can’t explain.”

Jack: gruffly “You’re saying consciousness redeems itself through art?”

Jeeny: with quiet conviction “Through creation, yes. The universe gave us awareness — and we answered with imagination.”

Jack: leaning against the telescope, cynical “Imagination? That’s just evolution’s way of entertaining itself while it waits to end us.”

Jeeny: eyes bright with emotion “You don’t really believe that.”

Jack: shrugs “I believe the stars will outlast every poem, every prayer. What’s the point of beauty when entropy always wins?”

Jeeny: leaning forward, voice trembling with passion “The point is that we make beauty knowing it won’t last. That’s what separates us from the chimp — not intelligence, not tools, but defiance.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like constellations forming — fragile, luminous, defiant. The hum of the telescope deepened, and outside, the wind sighed through the open dome.

Jack: after a long silence “So you think that one percent difference makes us gods?”

Jeeny: quietly “No. It makes us caretakers — of meaning.”

Jack: half-smiling “Caretakers of meaning. Sounds poetic.”

Jeeny: smiling back “Exactly. That’s the point. A chimp survives. We write poetry about survival.”

Jack: looking down, voice low “And sometimes die for it.”

Jeeny: gently “Maybe that’s the price of being aware — knowing your mortality, and still creating like it matters.”

Jack: exhaling softly “So you see that one percent as… grace?”

Jeeny: nodding “Grace, or responsibility. Maybe they’re the same.”

Host: The stars shifted above them — an ocean of light indifferent to human awe. And yet, within that indifference, something stirred — a sense that even insignificance can be beautiful.

Jack: quietly “You know, I envy the chimps. They don’t think about time. They don’t regret.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe that’s true. But they also don’t write songs that outlive their bodies. We do. We build things that touch what we’ll never reach.”

Jack: smirking faintly “Like telescopes?”

Jeeny: laughs lightly “Like love.”

Jack: pauses, caught off guard “Love?”

Jeeny: nodding “Yes. Love’s our rebellion against extinction. The universe expands, entropy grows — and we still reach for each other.”

Jack: quietly, almost whispering “That’s our one percent.”

Jeeny: gazing at the stars “Exactly. The universe is infinite, but empathy makes it intimate.”

Jack: softly, almost reverent “You always find light in the cracks, don’t you?”

Jeeny: smiling gently “That’s what we were made for.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly — the two of them small beneath the enormity of the cosmos. The stars shimmered above, cold and eternal, while below, the faint warmth of their voices lingered like candlelight against infinity.

Host: Neil deGrasse Tyson said, “Let’s say intelligence is your ability to compose poetry, symphonies, do art, math and science... Everything that we are, that distinguishes us from chimps, emerges from that one-percent difference.”
And perhaps what he meant was this —
that in the smallest margins, the universe hides its greatest miracles.

That one percent is the soul’s fingerprint —
the sliver of awareness that transforms instinct into imagination,
biology into belief,
existence into meaning.

From that narrow edge,
we learned to build, to weep, to dream —
to name the stars,
and still feel small beneath them.

Host: The stars burned colder, the night deepened,
and yet, in the soft glow of the observatory,
two fragile humans
reminded the cosmos that even the smallest difference
can birth infinite wonder.