Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday.

Host:
The clock on the café wall ticked with exaggerated patience — one deliberate click at a time — as if it too were aware that everyone inside was running a few steps behind life. Outside, dusk was slowly swallowing the city in gold and shadow, while inside, the hum of espresso machines blended with the lazy clatter of cups and the quiet sigh of people putting off whatever they were supposed to be doing.

At a small corner table, Jack and Jeeny sat facing each other, papers spread out between them — untouched, unread, waiting. The faint light from the hanging lamp drew a warm circle around them, like a small island of procrastination in a restless world.

Jeeny reached across the table, turning over a napkin where she’d scrawled a quote:

"Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday." — Don Marquis

She laughed softly, the kind of laugh that carried both recognition and guilt.

Jeeny: (smiling wryly) “Don Marquis had a wicked sense of humor, didn’t he? Calling procrastination an art. It’s like he’s mocking us gently — saying, ‘You think you’re moving forward, but all you’re really doing is catching up with what you should’ve done before.’”

Jack: (chuckling, leaning back in his chair) “Yeah. It’s the most honest kind of irony. We dress procrastination up as reflection, as perfectionism, as strategy — but all we’re really doing is chasing yesterday’s ghosts.”

Host:
The light flickered, catching the subtle exhaustion on Jack’s face. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his laptop open but untouched. Outside, the first drops of rain began to tap against the window — that slow, rhythmic sound that makes the world feel both infinite and enclosed.

Jeeny: (staring at the quote again) “But calling it an art — that’s what gets me. He’s almost forgiving us for it. Like he’s saying procrastination isn’t just laziness, it’s human. Maybe even creative. We delay not because we don’t care, but because we care too much. We wait for the perfect moment — the perfect word, the perfect emotion, the perfect clarity — and in doing so, we get stuck in yesterday.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “That’s one way to justify it. But Marquis wasn’t celebrating procrastination — he was laughing at our ability to romanticize it. The art he’s talking about isn’t noble. It’s tragic. We turn avoidance into philosophy. We convince ourselves that waiting equals wisdom. But waiting is just fear dressed in discipline.”

Jeeny: (defensive, but intrigued) “Or maybe fear is part of the process. You can’t create or decide or love without hesitation. The pause — that uncertainty — is where things become real. Sometimes procrastination is the space between impulse and insight.”

Jack: (leaning forward, voice low and certain) “Or the space where both die. You know what’s worse than failing at something, Jeeny? Never starting it. That’s what Marquis was warning us about — that procrastination becomes its own timeline. We end up living one day late for the rest of our lives.”

Host:
A gust of wind rattled the glass. The smell of coffee mingled with rain. There was something cinematic about the stillness between them — the way Jack’s cynicism met Jeeny’s hope like two halves of the same heartbeat.

Jeeny: (after a pause) “You sound like you’ve made peace with failure.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “I have. Failure teaches. Procrastination just lingers. It’s the ghost that doesn’t even scare you anymore. You learn to live with it, feed it, talk to it — and call that ‘thinking time.’”

Jeeny: (with a teasing grin) “You’re talking like a man who’s missed a lot of deadlines.”

Jack: (laughing softly) “You have no idea. But here’s the thing — the more you delay, the more you begin to confuse delay with control. You start to believe that by not acting, you’re preserving potential. But potential that never becomes action isn’t promise — it’s waste.”

Host:
Jeeny watched him, her eyes thoughtful. The rain had intensified, the world outside the café now a hazy reflection of streetlights and motion. Inside, time seemed to bend — the kind of hour that felt neither early nor late, just suspended.

Jeeny: (quietly) “But doesn’t every artist procrastinate a little? Maybe that’s what Marquis meant — that procrastination isn’t just avoidance; it’s also reflection. Sometimes, not doing something is your mind’s way of gathering courage, shaping clarity.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Sure. Up to a point. But there’s a fine line between preparation and paralysis. You wait for the ‘right time’ — but life never gives it to you. The truth is, most of what we call procrastination is just fear of imperfection. We’d rather hold on to the fantasy of doing something beautifully than risk doing it badly.”

Jeeny: (softly) “So we keep up with yesterday, instead of starting today.”

Jack: (sighing, almost whispering) “Exactly. We drag yesterday’s undone dreams into every morning, until they become our shadow.”

Host:
The clock ticked louder now, or maybe it just felt that way. Jeeny reached into her bag and pulled out a notebook — half-filled, pages creased and stained from use. She opened it to a blank page and stared at it, the faintest smile on her lips.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe Marquis wasn’t mocking us entirely. Maybe he saw the beauty in it, too. The way humans linger. The way we hesitate before creation. Because that hesitation — that dance with yesterday — is what makes us aware of time. We only procrastinate because we feel the weight of time passing.”

Jack: (quietly) “And yet, the only way to escape that weight is to move. To stop turning life into a rehearsal for what we could’ve done.”

Host:
Jeeny’s pen touched the paper. The sound of the rain softened, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe procrastination is just the body’s way of mourning time we haven’t yet learned to live.”

Jack: (watching her write) “And action is the way we forgive ourselves for it.”

Host (closing):
The clock ticked once more — sharp, deliberate, final.

Jeeny began to write, the words flowing quietly, while Jack watched the rain slide down the window, each droplet carrying the light of the street into a new shape.

Don Marquis’s words lingered in the air — a wry smile from the past, reminding them that yesterday always chases today, but only those who move can stay ahead of it.

Outside, the rain cleared. The city shimmered — alive, restless, ready.
And for the first time that night, so were they.