So little done, so much to do.

Host: The sun was setting over the construction site, turning the half-built steel framework into a skeleton of gold and shadow. The air was heavy with the smell of iron, dust, and the faint, almost sweet odor of wet concrete. Somewhere, a radio played an old song—fuzzy, distant, nostalgic.

Beyond the scaffolding, the city shimmered like a dream that had outgrown its dreamers. Cranes hung frozen against the orange skyline, their arms reaching upward like prayers made of metal.

Jack stood at the edge of the unfinished floor, a hard hat tilted back, his hands on his hips, staring out at the horizon. His shirt was streaked with sweat, his eyes hollowed by too many late nights and too many starts that never seemed to finish.

Jeeny walked toward him, helmet under her arm, her hair pulled back, her steps steady. She had that quiet composure that comes from being both exhausted and clear-minded. She stopped beside him, followed his gaze to the horizon.

On the railing near them, a piece of paper flapped in the wind—taped there by someone long gone. In bold letters, it read:
“So little done, so much to do.” — Cecil Rhodes.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? We build and build, and it always feels like we’re just getting started.”

Jack: (half-laughs, half-sighs) “That’s because we are. You think you’ve reached the top, and then you realize it’s just another floor in disguise.”

Host: A gust of wind moved through the steel beams, whistling like a sigh from the building itself—an unfinished breath of ambition.

Jeeny: “You sound like Rhodes himself.”

Jack: “Rhodes was a tyrant and a visionary, both at once. The kind of man who thought in centuries, not days. People like that never feel finished—they just run out of time.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: “Me? I’m just trying to get one damn thing done before the next one falls apart.”

Host: He picked up a small bolt from the ground, rolled it between his fingers. The sky behind him was a canvas of fading light, streaked with that deep, melancholy blue that always arrives before night.

Jeeny: “You know what that quote really means?”

Jack: “What, guilt?”

Jeeny: (shaking her head) “It means purpose. It means there’s always more to reach for. It’s not regret—it’s recognition.”

Jack: “You make unfinished sound noble.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe the point isn’t to finish, Jack. Maybe it’s to keep trying.”

Jack: “Easy to say when you’re not the one holding the blueprints.”

Jeeny: “You think blueprints are the truth? They’re just promises we make to ourselves. The real work is what happens between the lines.”

Host: The lights of the city began to glow beneath them, a million windows flickering like scattered candles—tiny acts of persistence in the dark.

Jack: “You ever get tired of it? The cycle? Build, fix, break, repeat?”

Jeeny: “I get tired of the noise. But not the making. The making is what keeps me alive.”

Jack: (looking at her) “Even when it feels pointless?”

Jeeny: “Especially then. That’s when it matters most.”

Host: The sound of a drill echoed somewhere in the distance, one last shift still at work against the falling night. A bird flew past—a dark silhouette crossing the crimson sky.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I wonder what it’s all for. These buildings, these plans… none of it lasts. We keep building monuments to people who are forgotten before the paint dries.”

Jeeny: “You think Rhodes didn’t know that? He didn’t build because it would last. He built because it meant he existed. That’s what we all do—leave pieces of ourselves behind in the work. That’s how we cheat time.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “So little done, so much to do.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s not despair. That’s defiance.”

Host: The light shifted again, the sun now half-gone, the city swallowed in a growing blue. The world looked both infinite and incomplete—like a painting waiting for its next stroke.

Jack: “You think that’s what he felt, standing at the end of his life? Pride, or panic?”

Jeeny: “Probably both. The proud always panic at the edge of unfinished dreams. But that’s the sign you’ve lived—when there’s still more to reach for.”

Jack: “And what if you never get there?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you were still moving. The tragedy isn’t leaving work undone. It’s running out of the will to keep doing it.”

Host: Jack nodded, his eyes following the lights spreading below—the trains, the traffic, the movement of people who had no idea they were part of someone else’s unfinished masterpiece.

Jack: “You know… maybe that’s why no one ever really finishes anything. Because as soon as you finish, it means it’s over. And we can’t stand endings.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The unfinished keeps us human.”

Host: The wind picked up again, carrying the faint scent of rain and metal. Jack took the piece of paper from the railing, folded it carefully, slipped it into his pocket.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll hang this up in the office. A reminder.”

Jeeny: “Of what?”

Jack: “That perfection’s a myth. That doing is the only thing that matters.”

Jeeny: “Good. Because ‘so much to do’ means there’s still time.”

Host: The lights in the distance blurred into constellations of motion. Somewhere below, a crane swung into stillness, its long arm frozen against the twilight. The last sound was the click of metal as Jack and Jeeny began to walk down the stairs, their footsteps echoing softly through the empty structure.

And above the city that was still being built,
the words of Cecil Rhodes lingered like a vow—

that the measure of a life is not in what we complete,
but in what we still have the courage to begin.

That the ache of “so little done”
is the proof of a soul
still willing to do so much.