Man should forget his anger before he lies down to sleep.

Host: The moonlight spilled across the empty apartment, a thin silver sheet over scattered books, half-drunk wine, and the remnants of an argument that still hung heavy in the air. The city outside was quiet, its heartbeat slowed to a distant hum. Jack sat at the edge of the couch, his elbows on his knees, fists tight, jaw locked. Jeeny stood by the window, her silhouette framed by the pale light, hair falling like a curtain of night around her face.

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, each second like a drip of cold water in a dark room. They hadn’t spoken in an hour, though words had once been flying, sharp, furious, cutting.

Jeeny: (softly) “Thomas de Quincey said, ‘Man should forget his anger before he lies down to sleep.’ Do you believe that, Jack?”

Jack: (without looking up) “Forget it? No. Sleep doesn’t wash away what’s true.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll carry it into tomorrow. And the day after. Until it isn’t anger anymore—it’s part of you.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted, grey and tired, like ash after a burned forest.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what keeps people honest. Some things shouldn’t be forgotten overnight. You think de Quincey ever had someone lie to his face and then just sleep it off?”

Jeeny: “You think holding it makes you stronger?”

Jack: “It makes me real. At least I don’t pretend everything’s fine when it isn’t.”

Host: The air between them tightened, like a wire pulled to the breaking point. Jeeny’s reflection in the window glass seemed to waver—a ghost of her patience fading.

Jeeny: “It’s not pretending, Jack. It’s peace. Anger isn’t proof of truth—it’s proof of pain. And pain doesn’t heal by holding on.”

Jack: “You always talk like it’s a choice. Like you can just close your eyes and release it. You can’t. Not if it’s real.”

Jeeny: “Real anger can still be forgiven. That’s the point. You forgive so you can sleep. Otherwise, you rot awake.”

Host: The rain began to fall—soft at first, then steadier, tapping against the window like a heartbeat returning. Jack’s voice lowered, more controlled, but the edge was still there, cold as steel.

Jack: “I forgave once. You remember that?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “I do.”

Jack: “And she did it again. Different lie, same look in her eyes. You know what I learned? Forgiveness is a blank check people keep cashing.”

Jeeny: “Then you weren’t forgiving—you were bargaining. Real forgiveness doesn’t expect return.”

Host: The lightning outside flashed, illuminating the room in a single cruel frame—Jack’s clenched jaw, Jeeny’s trembling hand.

Jack: “Tell that to someone who’s been betrayed, Jeeny. Someone who’s been humiliated in public. Someone who’s watched everything he built fall apart because someone else couldn’t keep their word.”

Jeeny: (turning sharply) “I have! I am that someone, Jack! But I didn’t let it make me cruel!”

Host: The words crashed through the room like glass breaking. Jeeny’s voice shook, but her eyes were steady, burning through the mist of her tears.

Jack: (after a long pause) “Then how do you do it? How do you lie down every night without that fire still eating you?”

Jeeny: “Because I’m tired of sleeping beside my own hate.”

Host: The rain grew louder, drowning out the silence that followed. The two figures stood there—one rigid, one trembling, both haunted by the weight of their own walls.

Jeeny: “You think anger keeps you alive, Jack. But it’s killing you quietly. It’s why you drink too much, why you stare at nothing for hours. You’re not fighting the world—you’re fighting yesterday.”

Jack: (voice low, breaking) “If I let go of that, Jeeny… what’s left? Who am I without it?”

Jeeny: “You’re free.”

Host: Jack laughed, a bitter, broken sound, more confession than mockery. He stood, walked to the window, and looked at the rain, the city lights blurring like tears in the glass.

Jack: “You talk like it’s easy. Like you can forgive the world every night before bed.”

Jeeny: “Not the world. Just myself. That’s what sleep is, Jack. It’s mercy in disguise.”

Host: Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low echo that seemed to agree with her. Jack’s shoulders slumped, the fight slowly draining from his body.

Jack: “So what—every night, you forget every wrong thing that’s ever been done to you?”

Jeeny: “No. I remember. But I don’t carry it into my dreams. There’s enough chaos in waking life—I won’t give it my sleep too.”

Host: A slow exhale escaped him, the kind that tastes like defeat and relief at once.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I don’t dream anymore.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Because you’re still awake in your anger.”

Host: The room was bathed now in muted light, the storm settling into a steady hum, like the city’s lullaby. Jack’s eyes softened, the tension in his hands finally loosening.

Jack: “You really think it’s that simple? That I can just… let it go?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s that hard. But every night you don’t, it grows teeth. And one day, it bites you when you least expect it.”

Jack: (quietly) “You sound like my mother.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe she was right.”

Host: A small smile creased her lips, fragile as paper, but sincere. Jack’s mouth twitched, a shadow of one in return. The rainlight on their faces made them look almost forgiven.

Jack: “You know, I once read about a Japanese samurai code—how they’d never go to bed angry. They said it clouded the spirit for battle the next day.”

Jeeny: “Even warriors understood peace isn’t weakness.”

Jack: “No. It’s precision.”

Host: The moment hung, a truce carved out of storm and silence. Jeeny crossed the room, placed a hand on his shoulder.

Jeeny: “Don’t let your anger be the last thing you touch before sleep. Touch something kinder.”

Jack: “Like what?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Like the thought that tomorrow doesn’t have to repeat tonight.”

Host: The clock ticked once more, but now its sound felt softer, as if the world itself had taken a breath. Jack’s gaze fell on the couch, on the dim lamp, on the woman beside him who refused to hate him back.

Jack: “Maybe de Quincey was right. Maybe the world would sleep better if we stopped arguing with it before bed.”

Jeeny: “Then start tonight.”

Jack: “How?”

Jeeny: “By forgiving yourself first.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving the city washed and still, its lights glowing like embers that refused to die. Jack sat, leaned back, and closed his eyes—not to escape, but to rest. Jeeny watched, her expression soft, her own eyes wet, as the anger that had filled the room finally faded into something quieter, something human.

Host: Outside, a new breeze stirred, lifting the curtains, brushing through the night like a benediction. And as sleep began to settle, it carried with it what anger could not: forgiveness, peace, and the dawn waiting just beyond the darkness.