Nearly every communication method we invent eventually conveys

Host: The subway car rattled through the underground arteries of the city, its walls plastered with ads for streaming services, dating apps, insurance plans, and soft drinks. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, humming with fatigue. Every face glowed with blue light — screens in palms, earbuds in ears, minds elsewhere.

Jack sat by the window, his reflection fractured by streaks of passing tunnel light. Across from him, Jeeny held a folded newspaper — one of the last in circulation — its pages half-covered in QR codes and glossy full-page ads disguised as stories.

Host: The rumble of the train mixed with the recorded voice announcing the next stop: “Connection available to all lines…” The irony wasn’t lost on either of them.

Jeeny: (lowering the paper) “Jamais Cascio once said, ‘Nearly every communication method we invent eventually conveys unwanted commercial messages.’”

(she smirks, glancing at the ad beside her) “He should’ve ridden this train.”

Jack: (dryly) “Oh, he would’ve loved it. Look around — capitalism’s graffiti. Every square inch is trying to sell you something.”

Jeeny: “Even the silence. Even the time between stops.”

Jack: (nodding) “Especially the silence. Someone figured out how to sell that too. Call it a meditation app.”

Host: The train lurched, the lights flickered, and a voice from a screen above them began another ad — cheerful, rehearsed, relentless. “Want to save on your commute? Download—”

Jeeny: (interrupting softly) “There’s no escape anymore. The moment we invent a new way to speak, someone turns it into a new way to sell.”

Jack: “It’s like the purity window’s shrinking. Radio had a decade. TV had a few years. The internet had maybe five minutes before it turned into a mall.”

Jeeny: “And now even thoughts get branded. Hashtags. Influencers. Every opinion’s a campaign.”

Host: A man across the aisle scrolled through his feed, thumb flicking faster than thought. Each post shimmered with ads tucked between faces, every scroll a transaction disguised as connection.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? We call it communication, but it’s really competition — for attention, for clicks, for loyalty. The message stopped being the point. The metric replaced it.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. We used to write letters. Now we build audiences.”

Jack: “And call it authenticity.”

Host: The train slowed; a new flood of passengers entered — teenagers, tourists, office workers — each clutching devices, each tethered to invisible worlds. The noise of notification chimes filled the car like a digital chorus.

Jeeny: (leaning back) “You think there’s any form of communication that can stay pure? Untouched by marketing?”

Jack: (thinking) “Maybe music. Not pop music — just… sound. The stuff people make when no one’s listening. That’s still sacred. For now.”

Jeeny: “Until someone licenses it for an ad.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Then maybe silence’s the last honest medium.”

Jeeny: “But even silence gets interrupted by a jingle.”

Host: The train doors closed again, and the PA system blared another commercial announcement — this time disguised as a safety reminder. “Remember to travel responsibly… and try our new Metro rewards card for exclusive discounts!”

Jack: “That’s the genius of it — they fuse necessity with manipulation. You can’t tune it out because it’s baked into the infrastructure.”

Jeeny: “Like language itself. Every word carries bias now — political, cultural, commercial. Words used to connect us. Now they divide and monetize us.”

Jack: (quietly) “We invented communication to share meaning. Now it’s an arms race for influence.”

Jeeny: “And yet we still call it progress.”

Host: The train passed through another tunnel, walls covered in fast-moving digital billboards — faces and slogans flashing like hallucinations. For a moment, the lights inside dimmed, and their reflections became clearer than the world outside.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know, Cascio’s quote feels almost prophetic. He wasn’t just talking about technology — he was talking about corruption of intention. Every human attempt to connect eventually becomes a marketplace.”

Jack: “And the saddest part is — we consent to it. Every click, every like, every ‘agree to terms.’ We trade our attention for convenience.”

Jeeny: “And our intimacy for audience.”

Jack: “Yeah. Even love’s got ads now.”

Host: A teenage couple nearby posed for a selfie — smiling, retaking, filtering, posting. The flash from their phone illuminated Jack’s tired grin.

Jeeny: “You sound bitter.”

Jack: “No. Just realistic. We built a world where everything communicates — except honesty.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why we’re nostalgic for old tech. Letters, mixtapes, late-night phone calls. They were messy, imperfect — but real. Now every word comes with an algorithm attached.”

Jack: (softly) “Even this conversation.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Yeah. Somewhere, some device is listening — waiting to recommend us a product that fits our mood.”

Host: The train began to climb toward daylight, emerging from the tunnel. The first rays of morning light flooded the car, washing out the glow of every screen. For one brief moment, faces lifted — disconnected from devices, bathed in natural light.

Jack: (looking around) “There it is — the only thing they can’t sell. The sun.”

Jeeny: “Give it time.”

Jack: (smirking) “Solar subscriptions?”

Jeeny: “Oh, absolutely. Premium sunlight. Ad-free mornings.”

Host: They both laughed, the kind of laughter that carried melancholy beneath it — the sound of people who understood too much and forgave it anyway.

The city outside came alive — billboards, shopfronts, blinking signs. The same hunger everywhere, dressed in color and motion.

Jack: “You think it’ll ever stop?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe we’ll adapt. Learn to see the message beneath the marketing.”

Jack: “And what’s that?”

Jeeny: “The same thing it’s always been — a human trying to reach another human.”

Host: The train doors opened at the final stop. The passengers poured out, swallowed by the glowing maze of the city — every one of them connected, yet somehow alone.

Host: The camera lingered on the empty seats, the flickering ads, the lingering hum of electricity.

And through that mechanical stillness, Jamais Cascio’s words echoed like a warning — soft but relentless:

Host: That every invention begins as an expression,
and ends as an advertisement.

That connection breeds commerce,
and meaning decays beneath monetization.

That our desire to speak,
to share,
to be seen,
will always carry the risk
of being sold.

Host: The lights dimmed,
the train rumbled onward,
and Jack and Jeeny stepped into the brightness of morning —
two voices among millions,
still searching for a way to communicate
without being commodified.