Taste may change, but inclination never.

Host: The afternoon sun hung low over the city, its light filtering through the tinted windows of a quiet art gallery. The air was thick with the scent of varnish and aged wood. Paintings lined the walls—some modern, some ancient—each one a confession frozen in color. A faint jazz record spun somewhere in the distance, its melancholy notes curling through the room like smoke.

Jack stood before a large canvas, his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes narrowed as if the painting had offended him. Jeeny moved slowly beside him, her heels barely echoing on the wooden floor.

Jeeny: “Do you know what François de La Rochefoucauld said? ‘Taste may change, but inclination never.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “So he believed people never really change. That’s comforting.”

Host: Jack’s voice dripped with quiet sarcasm, yet beneath it there was a trace of sadness—a familiar fatigue of someone who had tried to reinvent himself too many times.

Jeeny: “Not quite. He meant that our tastes—what we like, admire, even pretend to believe—can evolve. But our nature, our inclination, that core hunger inside us, never truly shifts.”

Jack: “You mean the wolves just learn how to wear different clothes.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Something like that.”

Host: The sunlight slid across the floor, touching the edge of a painting—a portrait of a young woman with dark eyes and a half-smile. Jeeny’s gaze lingered there, soft but intent.

Jack: “So what’s the point of self-improvement then? Why bother trying to be better if we’re just slaves to what we already are?”

Jeeny: “Because self-awareness isn’t about changing our inclinations—it’s about understanding them. Taming them.”

Jack: “Taming, huh? You make it sound like a zoo inside the mind.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it?”

Host: Jack laughed, but it wasn’t amusement. It was the kind of laughter that hid a bruise. He walked a few steps away, hands still in pockets, his reflection fragmented in the glass case that displayed old photographs.

Jack: “You know, I used to think I’d outgrown the things I wanted when I was younger—ambition, thrill, control. But it’s still there. Just buried under different excuses.”

Jeeny: “And you think that proves him right?”

Jack: “Doesn’t it? I changed careers, cities, friends. But underneath—I’m still the same man who wants to win, who fears being forgotten.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not inclination. Maybe that’s memory.”

Jack: “Same difference. Memory is just yesterday’s inclination with dust on it.”

Host: The gallery had quieted completely now. The music stopped. The only sound was the faint hum of the air-conditioning and the distant rumble of the city outside. Jeeny turned, her expression softening.

Jeeny: “I don’t think La Rochefoucauld meant it cynically. He wasn’t saying we’re doomed to repeat ourselves. He was saying that our deepest desires are the threads that tie our lives together. Even when everything else changes.”

Jack: “So you’re saying my ambition isn’t a flaw—it’s a compass.”

Jeeny: “If you understand it. If you use it with care.”

Jack: “And if it destroys me?”

Jeeny: “Then you learn what you were really inclined toward: destruction, or redemption.”

Host: The light had shifted, casting long shadows from the frames onto the floor. The portraits seemed to stare, as if listening to the conversation. Jack’s jaw tightened slightly; he was fighting something—maybe a memory, maybe himself.

Jack: “You know, I once loved someone who swore she’d changed. She quit drinking, quit gambling, started painting. But eventually, it all came back. Every habit, every lie. Like her new self was just a costume she couldn’t breathe in.”

Jeeny: “Pain makes people hide, Jack. But it doesn’t mean they never wanted to change.”

Jack: “Wanting isn’t the same as doing.”

Jeeny: “And doing isn’t the same as being.”

Host: A silence fell, as if the room itself was holding its breath.

Jeeny: “You’re right that our inclinations don’t vanish. But they can be transformed. Like fire—it can burn or illuminate, depending on how you use it.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But in practice? People burn.”

Jeeny: “And yet they still light candles.”

Jack: (softly) “You always find a way to believe in people.”

Jeeny: “Because I’ve seen them change—not their nature, but their direction. There’s a difference.”

Host: The gallery lights dimmed slightly, the automatic timer signaling the approach of closing hour. The evening crept in through the windows, turning the paintings into shadows of themselves.

Jack: “You think inclination is destiny.”

Jeeny: “No. I think inclination is origin. Destiny is what you do with it.”

Jack: “Then tell me this—what about the monsters? The men who were born with cruelty in their bones. You think they can just… redirect that?”

Jeeny: “History says some did. Look at Malcolm X. His rage once destroyed him, but later it became his voice, his power. He didn’t kill his inclination; he transformed it.”

Jack: “And others? Hitler? Stalin? They just refined theirs.”

Jeeny: “That’s why understanding inclination is dangerous—but necessary. You can’t defeat what you refuse to see.”

Host: The wind pressed against the windows, rattling the frames slightly. The gallery felt like a cathedral of forgotten truths. Jeeny walked closer to a painting of an old man with tired eyes, his hands folded over a book.

Jeeny: “Maybe La Rochefoucauld wasn’t warning us about permanence. Maybe he was warning us about pretending.”

Jack: “Pretending?”

Jeeny: “That we’re different people than we were yesterday. That we’ve erased the past. But the truth is—we just learn how to carry it more gracefully.”

Jack: (sighs) “You make it sound noble. I call it camouflage.”

Jeeny: “Camouflage is still survival.”

Host: Jack smiled, the kind of smile that hides both admiration and pain. He leaned against the wall, watching the last rays of light fade from the floorboards.

Jack: “So, we never change… we just learn to wear our inclinations with better tailoring.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But maybe that’s the art of living—becoming aware of the thread that runs through every version of yourself.”

Jack: “And what’s yours, Jeeny? What inclination never left you?”

Jeeny: (pauses) “To believe in the possibility of good. Even when it’s foolish.”

Jack: (quietly) “And mine? To doubt it. Even when it’s true.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why we meet here—in the middle of belief and doubt.”

Host: Outside, the city lights had come alive, casting their own paintings across the glass. Inside, Jack and Jeeny stood among portraits of strangers who had lived and loved and failed, yet still wanted to be remembered.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s all inclination is—a longing we never outgrow.”

Jack: “A longing to what?”

Jeeny: “To feel real.”

Host: Jack nodded, his reflection in the glass merging with the painted faces behind it. For a brief moment, it was impossible to tell where he ended and the art began.

The lights flickered, and the gallery dimmed into a soft twilight. Jeeny turned toward the door, her steps slow, deliberate.

Jack: (calling after her) “You think our inclinations define us?”

Jeeny: (without turning) “No. They reveal us.”

Host: And with that, she disappeared into the evening, the door closing behind her with a gentle click. Jack stood alone in the silence, the last of the sunlight touching his face like a confession.

He looked once more at the portrait of the woman with the half-smile.
Then, almost to himself, he whispered, “Taste may change… but inclination never.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back, revealing the gallery, empty yet alive, filled with the echo of every desire, every belief, every unforgotten self.

FADE OUT.