My attitude is never to be satisfied, never enough, never.

Host: The city pulsed with rhythm, a midnight heartbeat of saxophones, neon, and the smell of rain mixed with tobacco smoke. In a dimly lit jazz bar on the corner of an old avenue, time moved differently — slow, sensual, syncopated. The walls glowed with the ghosts of sound, and the piano in the corner still hummed from the last note it had been asked to carry.

Jack sat on the small stage, his sleeves rolled, a cigarette burning itself out beside a half-drunk glass of bourbon. His grey eyes shimmered with exhaustion and fire — that dangerous balance only artists understand. Across from him, Jeeny leaned on the bar, her hair glistening in the lamplight, her brown eyes sharp, steady, alive with both admiration and worry.

The last customer left. The door clicked shut. Silence — heavy, full, breathing.

Jeeny: “You played like you were chasing something that didn’t want to be caught tonight.”

Jack: chuckles dryly “That’s every night.”

Host: The bartender wiped down the counter, glancing at them once before leaving. The door closed, and now it was just them and the quiet hum of the room — the kind of quiet that makes you realize how loud your heart really is.

Jeeny: “Duke Ellington once said, ‘My attitude is never to be satisfied, never enough, never.’ You remind me of him tonight.”

Jack: half-smirking “Ellington had genius. I’ve just got stubbornness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the same thing, just with more bruises.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tapped against the piano keys absently, a rhythm that sounded more like thinking than music.

Jack: “Never enough… that’s not inspiration, Jeeny. That’s a curse. You build something, you play it, you bleed for it — and the moment it’s out, it’s dead to you. You start hearing all the notes you should’ve hit, the tones that slipped away. You start hating the silence that follows.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what keeps greatness alive — that refusal to be satisfied.”

Jack: “Or maybe it kills peace.”

Host: He pressed a single key, the low note echoing into the empty room like a heartbeat that didn’t want to stop.

Jeeny: “Duke wasn’t talking about torment. He meant the fire — the kind that keeps art from becoming complacent.”

Jack: grins faintly “You ever met a happy perfectionist?”

Jeeny: “No. But I’ve met meaningful ones.”

Host: She moved closer, her steps soft, her shadow joining his on the piano. The dim light fell across her face, tracing the gentleness of conviction.

Jeeny: “Think about it, Jack. Ellington’s life — he wrote over two thousand pieces. Every night, a new show, a new sound. The man could’ve rested, but he didn’t. He wasn’t chasing fame — he was chasing the divine through sound. That’s what he meant by ‘never enough.’ It wasn’t greed. It was reverence.”

Jack: “Reverence? For what? Notes?”

Jeeny: “For creation itself. For the act of shaping chaos into beauty. You do that too, whether you admit it or not.”

Jack: snorts “If you call noise at 2 a.m. and a bar tab art.”

Jeeny: “It’s not noise when it makes someone feel alive.”

Host: Jack looked at her — long, slow, searching. The room felt smaller then, as if the world had folded inward until only truth and breath remained.

Jack: “You really think the chase — the endless not-enough — is worth it? That kind of hunger burns people alive.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it also lights the world. Think of every masterpiece, every song that broke through time. They were made by people who refused to settle. People who believed beauty could always reach higher.”

Jack: whispering “And what happens when you can’t reach anymore?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep playing anyway. Because the song itself is the reaching.”

Host: Silence. Then, softly, Jack played a chord — minor, fragile, the kind that asks more questions than it answers. The sound lingered, like smoke unwilling to leave.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But I’ve seen what ‘never enough’ does. My old bandleader — Tony — spent thirty years chasing the perfect set. Died backstage before the encore. Heart gave out, trumpet still in hand. They say he smiled as he fell, but I think he just didn’t know how to stop.”

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe that was his peace. To go while still creating. Maybe the fire consumed him, but it also defined him.”

Jack: “You sound like someone defending madness.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes madness is the only language great souls understand.”

Host: The wind whistled faintly outside, brushing the old windowpanes. The neon light from the bar sign flickered, painting the room in slow waves of red and gold.

Jeeny: “Jack, listen — satisfaction isn’t the goal. It’s the death of the dream. The hunger keeps you alive. Ellington knew that. That’s why his music never settled — it moved. Every piece was him talking to God in a different accent.”

Jack: “And what if God never answers?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Then you keep playing. Because maybe the answer is the song.”

Host: Jack’s hands hovered over the keys again. He struck a slow, haunting melody — something between a lullaby and a confession. The notes filled the space between them like smoke curling toward heaven.

Jeeny closed her eyes, letting it wash over her.

Jeeny: “You see? That right there — that’s what he meant. You think you’re just playing, but you’re speaking. You’re telling the world it’s worth reaching, even when it hurts.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just trying to drown the silence.”

Jeeny: “And isn’t that what all art is? Drowning silence with meaning?”

Host: The music deepened, fragile yet defiant. Jack played as if the piano were his only truth left. When he stopped, the echo felt like the aftertaste of honesty — bitter, beautiful, necessary.

Jack: “Never satisfied,” he murmured. “Never enough. Never.”

Jeeny: “Good. That means you’re still alive.”

Host: She smiled, soft but knowing. Jack leaned back, staring at the ceiling where the faint smoke curled like fading thoughts.

Jack: “You ever wish it were enough, Jeeny? Just once?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But then I realize — if I ever felt truly satisfied, I’d stop growing. And I’m terrified of stillness.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. Stillness is the closest thing to death.”

Host: The clock behind the bar ticked once — clear, sharp, like the click of realization.

Jack: “You know, I used to think Ellington’s words were arrogance. Now I think they’re mercy — a kind of divine restlessness. Maybe we’re not meant to arrive anywhere.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the art is the journey itself. The unfinished symphony. The endless note.”

Host: The first light of dawn began to creep through the dusty windows, painting the instruments and empty chairs in pale gold. The night was ending, but something inside them — that wild, unending search — remained bright.

Jack played one last note, let it fade, and smiled — the quiet smile of a man who’d made peace with never finding peace.

Jeeny: “So, what now?”

Jack: “Now?” he lit another cigarette, eyes soft in the morning light. “Now we keep playing.”

Host: The camera pulled back, revealing the empty bar, the ashtray, the piano, and two souls framed in the light of an unending dawn — imperfect, relentless, alive.

And over the scene, Duke Ellington’s echo rose like a final chord carried by the wind:

“My attitude is never to be satisfied, never enough, never.”