People get very excited about very high elements. That's why

Host: The sunset burned like amber glass across the city skyline, pouring over steel and shadow. On the rooftop terrace of a half-finished skyscraper, the wind howled through the scaffolding, carrying the smell of concrete, sweat, and ambition.

Jack stood near the edge, his hands in his jacket pockets, eyes locked on the horizon — a vast, glittering forest of towers, all reaching, all competing. Beside him, Jeeny sat on a steel beam, her legs dangling hundreds of feet above the ground, her face turned toward the dying light.

Between them, silence stretched — a silence of altitude, of dreams, of the strange loneliness that comes with being high above the world.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how much we build, just to feel a little closer to the sky?”

Jack: “Sure. That’s what Cesar Pelli said once — people get excited about high things. It’s not about difficulty, it’s about height. About visibility. Everyone wants to touch what others can only look at.”

Jeeny: “So Mount Everest isn’t the hardest to climb, but it’s the one everyone talks about.”

Jack: “Exactly. No one remembers the second tallest. Fame, not challenge, makes it matter.”

Host: The wind grew stronger, whistling through the metal ribs of the building, the air sharp and cold. The city lights below began to sparkle, like a map of stars turned upside down.

Jeeny: “You think that’s what drives people, Jack? The need to be seen from below?”

Jack: “It’s what drives everyone. Architects, mountaineers, influencers, politicians — it’s all the same disease. We mistake height for meaning.”

Jeeny: “You think height is meaningless?”

Jack: “No. I think it’s addictive. The more you rise, the less you can breathe, and the more you think that’s a sign of success.”

Host: A crane light swung slowly overhead, cutting through the dusk like a searchlight. Jeeny looked down at the streets far below — the tiny cars, the moving dots of people.

Jeeny: “But maybe height isn’t about ego. Maybe it’s about hope. The need to reach something bigger. Everest isn’t about fame — it’s about the feeling that you can stand where nothing can hurt you.”

Jack: “That’s the illusion. The wind still cuts you, the cold still kills you, and the view doesn’t save you. It just makes the fall look longer.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s already fallen.”

Jack: “Maybe I have. Maybe I climbed a few too many Everests of my own — careers, goals, people — thinking altitude would equal worth.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “Turns out the air’s thin up here.”

Host: A moment of stillness passed. The sun had sunk, and now only the gold edge of its memory lingered on the buildings. Jeeny stood, brushing the dust from her jeans, her eyes catching the last light.

Jeeny: “But isn’t it human, Jack? To want to rise? To see what’s on the other side of the clouds? If no one climbed, if no one built, the world would still be flat.”

Jack: “I’m not against climbing. I’m against forgetting why we started. The moment the climb becomes about the view, not the journey, it’s just another ego trip.”

Jeeny: “You think Pelli meant that? That we’re more in love with the symbol than the substance?”

Jack: “Of course. He built skyscrapers, but he understood they were just mirrors — reflections of our hunger, not our heights.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the metal, lifting Jeeny’s hair, pushing against their balance. Below them, the city hummed — the heartbeat of a civilization always looking up, never looking in.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not so bad, though. Maybe height is how we cope with being small. We reach, we build, we believe there’s something above us worth touching.”

Jack: “And what happens when we touch it?”

Jeeny: “We see how far we’ve come. And maybe that’s enough.”

Jack: “Or maybe we just start looking for something even taller.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what makes us human?”

Jack: “Or mad.”

Host: The city lights below flickered like a sea of fireflies, each one a story, a dream, a window where someone else was reaching for something unseen.

Jeeny: “You remember when the Petronas Towers were finished? People called them ‘monuments of ambition.’ Pelli said they were about harmony, not height. But everyone only remembered the height.”

Jack: “Because no one wants to worship balance. They want to worship what’s visible. It’s easier to admire what you can measure.”

Jeeny: “Maybe beauty is measured in meters now.”

Jack: “And worth in followers.”

Jeeny: “And heaven in views.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The wind softened as the city finally settled into its night rhythm — a symphony of lights, horns, and distant sirens. The crane above them stopped, and for the first time, the air felt still.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… I think Pelli wasn’t just talking about architecture. I think he was talking about people. About how we all want to be the tallest in someone’s sky.”

Jack: “And how the tallest are the most alone.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But they’re also the ones who see furthest.”

Jack: “Or who fall hardest.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the two are the same thing.”

Jack: (pauses) “Maybe that’s what makes Everest matter. Not that it’s tall, but that people keep climbing it, knowing the risk. Maybe height is just another word for faith.”

Jeeny: “Faith in what?”

Jack: “That the view — for a second — might make the fear worth it.”

Host: A plane passed above them, its lights blinking faintly against the black sky. For a moment, both of them watched, their faces turned upward like two modern pilgrims chasing something invisible, eternal.

The city below them breathed, the towers standing like testaments to every human who ever refused to stay low.

Jeeny smiled, her voice a whisper against the wind.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why we’ll never stop building, Jack. Because as long as there’s a sky, someone will want to touch it.”

Jack: “And as long as there’s a skyline, someone will want to outshine it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the only real measure of greatness… is how many others you inspire to climb.”

Jack: “And not how high you stand when they get there.”

Host: The wind eased into a whisper. Below them, the city shone — a cathedral of light built by a species obsessed with reaching.

The stars above looked down, silent, almost amused. They’d seen this before. They’d watched humans build their way to heaven for centuries — one tower, one dream, one Everest at a time.

And up there, on the steel beam, two souls stood, small and brilliant, staring into the infinite, realizing that maybe height wasn’t the goal at all — maybe it was just the mirror that showed how deeply we still longed to rise.