Technology can be our best friend, and technology can also be the

Host: The office was quiet, long after midnight. Rows of desks glowed faintly with the ghost light of screens, restless in their sleep mode. The city beyond the windows pulsed with a thousand tiny lights, each one a conversation, a scroll, a notification. The air was thick with the hum of machines, the heartbeat of a world that never logged off.

Jack sat alone, his tie loosened, his face lit by the cold blue light of a monitor. His eyes were tired, but focused, fingers typing with mechanical rhythm. Jeeny entered quietly, her heels soft against the carpet, holding two paper cups of coffee.

She placed one by his side and looked at him — that same look she always had when she saw him lost somewhere between purpose and habit.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, I think I’ve seen you blink maybe twice tonight.”

Jack: “I’ll do it again when the server stops crashing.”

Jeeny: “The server isn’t the only one crashing.”

Host: Jack smirked, a small, weary gesture, the kind of smile people use when they don’t want to admit they’re breaking.

Jack: “This is how things get done, Jeeny. Technology doesn’t sleep, and neither can we.”

Jeeny: “Steven Spielberg said something once. ‘Technology can be our best friend, and technology can also be the biggest party pooper of our lives. It interrupts our own story, interrupts our ability to have a thought or a daydream, to imagine something wonderful, because we’re too busy bridging the walk from the cafeteria back to the office on the cell phone.’”

Jack: “Spielberg? The guy who made E.T. talk through a machine? That’s rich.”

Jeeny: “He didn’t hate technology. He just understood it — the friend that smiles while it steals from you.”

Jack: “Steals what, exactly?”

Jeeny: “Silence. Wonder. Imagination. The space between two moments where we might have felt something.”

Host: The rain outside streaked across the windows, each drop like a line of code scrolling endlessly downward. The office lights reflected against the glass, a field of blue constellations, man-made and sleepless.

Jack: “Imagination doesn’t need silence anymore. It needs tools. Without technology, there’s no artificial heart, no Apollo 11, no DreamWorks. Spielberg’s entire legacy runs on circuits.”

Jeeny: “You’re missing the point, Jack. He wasn’t condemning the tool — he was mourning what it’s costing us. We’ve stopped living moments and started recording them. We don’t remember anymore — we just scroll.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s just evolution. We’ve outsourced memory, not murdered it. Isn’t that what progress is? Making things easier, faster, smarter?”

Jeeny: “But not deeper. Not realer.”

Jack: “Reality is subjective. Ask anyone who’s ever built a simulation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’re simulating our own lives, Jack. Even now, you’re living through a screen — your work, your friends, your dreams. When was the last time you looked out that window and just… breathed?”

Jack: “I don’t have time to breathe, Jeeny. Not in this line of work.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not work anymore. Maybe it’s worship.”

Host: Her words cut through the hum of the computers, sharper than any alarm. Jack’s fingers paused on the keyboard, the cursor blinking, like a heartbeat waiting for a decision.

Jack: “You think I’m some kind of tech addict?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you’re a man who forgot that life happens when the screen goes dark.”

Jack: “And you think disconnecting will make it all better? You think walking away from all this will make the world less digital?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it’ll make it more human.”

Jack: “That’s easy for you to say. You still believe in people. I’ve seen what they do with technology — how they weaponize it, distort it, consume it until it consumes them. You call it a tool, but I’ve seen it turn into a god.”

Jeeny: “Then stop praying to it.”

Host: The tension between them crackled, as if the machines around them had heard the accusation. The hum seemed to grow, almost defensive, like the room itself bristled at the thought of being betrayed.

Jack: “You make it sound like technology has intent. It’s not evil, Jeeny. It’s neutral. It’s what we make of it.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s what it makes of us. That’s the difference. It’s not neutral when it’s shaping how we think, how we feel, how we speak to each other. We’ve stopped pausing long enough to even dream. Spielberg was right — it’s the party pooper of our souls.”

Jack: “You want to go back to caves and candles, then?”

Jeeny: “No. I want to remember why we lit the first fire.”

Host: The rain had eased, leaving only the echo of drops falling from the roof onto the metal rails outside. The city lights shifted, and for a moment, the reflection of Jack and Jeeny in the window looked like two shadows caught in an endless loop — half light, half code.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I used to stare out the bus window for hours. Just… watch the sky, the trees, the people. No music, no phone. Just the world.”

Jeeny: “And what happened?”

Jack: “I got my first smartphone.”

Jeeny: “And your world got smaller.”

Jack: “No. It got faster. But maybe that’s the same thing.”

Host: A small, almost invisible smile appeared on Jeeny’s lips — not of victory, but of understanding.

Jeeny: “You see? Even you miss it — the slowness, the boredom. The space between thoughts. That’s where art used to live, Jack. In the empty moments.”

Jack: “Empty moments don’t pay the bills.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But they build the soul.”

Host: The office clock ticked past 2:00 a.m. The monitors dimmed, one by one, as the systems went into sleep mode. The blue light that had once bathed Jack’s face now faded, replaced by the soft, warm glow of the city.

Jack: “You know, Spielberg may have been onto something. We invented the machine to save time, and now we’re saving time to serve the machine.”

Jeeny: “That’s the paradox, isn’t it? We’re more connected than ever, and yet we’ve never felt so alone.”

Jack: “Maybe the next revolution won’t be technological.”

Jeeny: “No. It’ll be human. When we finally look up from the screen and remember that the stars are still there.”

Host: The lights in the office went dark, leaving only the city beyond — a constellation of windows, each one holding someone awake, typing, scrolling, waiting. Jack and Jeeny stood by the window, watching the world move, yet standing still.

Jack: “You ever wonder what we’d dream about if we weren’t so busy documenting the dreams we already had?”

Jeeny: “Maybe we’d remember what it’s like to be the dreamers again.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — through the window, through the mist, over the city, where lights blinked like signals in the dark.

And as the night faded, and the first hint of dawn spilled across the skyscrapers, it was clear — we had built a world so loud, we’d forgotten how to hear ourselves think.

But somewhere, between the buzz of a notification and the silence of a moment, there still waited a story — ours, if only we dared to listen again.