So far as I know, anything worth hearing is not usually uttered

Host:
The morning light crept reluctantly into the small apartment, sliding across an unmade bed, a half-open window, and a coffee pot gurgling like it was trying to apologize for waking anyone up. The air smelled faintly of toast, paper, and impatience. Outside, the city was beginning its daily performance — the hiss of buses, the shuffle of shoes, the murmur of people pretending to be awake.

Inside, Jack sat at the kitchen table in a white T-shirt, hair a mess of sleep and defiance, staring into a mug of black coffee as though it held cosmic truths. Across from him, Jeeny, bright-eyed despite the early hour, wore an oversized cardigan and the kind of expression that only morning people have — a look that hovers somewhere between peace and mischief.

She tore open a sugar packet, stirring it gently into her tea before speaking — her voice calm, but playful:

"So far as I know, anything worth hearing is not usually uttered at seven o'clock in the morning; and if it is, it will generally be repeated at a more reasonable hour for a larger and more wakeful audience." — Moss Hart

Jeeny:
(smiling)
Finally, a quote written for you.

Jack:
(grinning faintly)
For me? It’s a manifesto.

Jeeny:
I don’t understand you night creatures. Morning’s the best part of the day. It’s quiet. Honest. Full of possibility.

Jack:
It’s cruel. The sun’s too confident, the birds too smug. And people — they act like happiness should be mandatory before coffee.

Jeeny:
(laughing softly)
Maybe it’s not happiness. Maybe it’s awareness.

Jack:
Awareness is overrated before 10 a.m.

Host:
The light in the room thickened as the sun climbed higher. Dust drifted lazily in its path, and the steam from Jeeny’s tea curled upward like a slow-moving thought. There was warmth in the air now — the kind that comes from the contrast between one person’s chaos and another’s calm.

Jeeny:
You know, Hart wasn’t wrong. Most great conversations don’t happen before sunrise. But isn’t that a shame?

Jack:
Why? The world’s not built for wisdom at dawn — it’s built for survival.

Jeeny:
(smirking)
You mean caffeine.

Jack:
Exactly. Look, the mind’s like an engine — it needs oil, fire, and a reason to start. At seven a.m., I have none of those.

Jeeny:
But there’s something poetic about the early hour — the way the city hasn’t fully decided what kind of day it’s going to be yet.

Jack:
Poetic, maybe. But poetry’s wasted on the half-asleep.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s why it’s pure. No audience, no performance — just existence.

Jack:
(pauses, staring into his cup)
Or delirium.

Host:
The clock ticked faintly in the background, a metronome for the slow duel between their philosophies. Outside, a truck rumbled past, scattering pigeons into the air. The morning was fully awake now, even if one of them refused to join it.

Jeeny:
You ever notice that mornings are honest in a way evenings aren’t?

Jack:
Honest?

Jeeny:
Yes. Evenings lie. They let you hide in shadows, in noise, in movement. But morning— it strips you bare. No distractions, no disguises. Just you and the light.

Jack:
And that’s exactly why I avoid it.

Jeeny:
(laughing)
You’d rather drown in the comfort of your own illusions?

Jack:
Absolutely. My illusions are far more civil before noon.

Jeeny:
You’re impossible.

Jack:
No — I’m practical. Anything worth saying can wait until the world’s had its first cup of reason.

Jeeny:
You think reason comes from caffeine?

Jack:
No. But civility does.

Host:
The coffee pot hissed one last time, as if siding with him. Jeeny smiled despite herself, the corner of her mouth curving into reluctant amusement.

Jeeny:
You know, I think early hours reveal people. They show who’s built from calm and who’s built from chaos.

Jack:
And you think I’m chaos?

Jeeny:
No — I think you’re depth disguised as fatigue.

Jack:
(smiling softly)
That’s generous. Most people just call it grumpiness.

Jeeny:
Because they mistake quiet for withdrawal. But sometimes silence is just… processing.

Jack:
Processing what?

Jeeny:
The weight of another day. The absurdity of pretending we have control over it.

Jack:
Now that’s something worth hearing.

Jeeny:
And look at that — it’s before eight. Maybe Moss Hart underestimated mornings.

Jack:
(smiling wryly)
Or maybe you just talk better than most people at this hour.

Host:
A faint laugh escaped both of them, blending with the sound of the kettle refilling. The sunlight had reached the far wall now, illuminating the stack of newspapers and the faint smoke curling from a burnt piece of toast.

Jeeny:
So what do you think he really meant?

Jack:
That wisdom has a time zone.

Jeeny:
And morning isn’t it?

Jack:
No. Morning’s for recovering from sleep, not reinventing the soul.

Jeeny:
But doesn’t thought come best when the mind’s fresh?

Jack:
Not mine. My mind needs miles before it starts to make sense.

Jeeny:
That’s because you think too much.

Jack:
And you think too early.

Jeeny:
(smiling)
So we balance each other out.

Jack:
Exactly. You bring the dawn; I bring the dusk.

Host:
The room glowed gold now, soft and slow. Time itself seemed to yawn. The day outside had fully arrived, though it felt reluctant to interrupt their small, luminous argument.

Jeeny:
You know what I think? I think mornings aren’t about words at all.

Jack:
What are they about, then?

Jeeny:
About presence. About that fragile quiet before the world starts asking you to be someone.

Jack:
(softly)
That’s… actually beautiful.

Jeeny:
(smiling)
See? You’re capable of wisdom before breakfast.

Jack:
Barely. But I’ll take it.

Jeeny:
And I’ll keep my mornings. They’re my reminder that clarity doesn’t shout — it whispers.

Jack:
And I’ll keep my evenings. They’re my proof that whispers can echo, if you wait long enough.

Host:
The clock struck eight, the light fully awake now. Outside, the city had found its rhythm — footsteps, voices, the pulse of purpose. Inside, the world remained still, wrapped in that soft in-between where thought and silence meet.

Host:
And as they finished their drinks, Moss Hart’s words hovered in the gentle light — half humor, half wisdom, all truth:

That not everything worth hearing arrives on time.
That the world’s best thoughts often need sleep before speech.

That clarity is a late riser,
and insight, like good coffee, takes patience to brew.

And yet — that in the right company,
even seven a.m. can feel like revelation.

The cups emptied.
The light settled.

And as Jack reached for the newspaper,
and Jeeny smiled into her tea,
the morning — loud, bright, unrelenting —
felt suddenly gentle.

For once,
the silence between them
was what was worth hearing.