That's why I do this music business thing, it's communication

Host: The city night stretched out like a sheet of silk, alive with the humming pulse of streetlights and the distant rhythm of traffic. A rooftop bar, twenty floors up, overlooked the glittering veins of highways, where headlights flowed like streams of white fire. The sky was thick with smog and stars, blending together in a kind of urban poetry only the lonely understand.

Jack leaned against the railing, a glass of whiskey in his hand, the ice melting slower than his mood. His grey eyes watched the world below, but they saw something else entirely — the distance between voices, between hearts, between what’s said and what’s never spoken.

Jeeny sat a few feet away, cross-legged on a bench, her hair dancing in the wind, her phone glowing faintly in her hand. She looked up, smiling, as if she could hear the sound of Jack’s thoughts.

Jeeny: “You look like a man writing a song no one will ever hear.”

Jack: “Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m just trying to listen to the silence between songs.”

Jeeny: “Ah. So, Morrissey’s kind of silence?”

Jack: “Exactly. He once said, ‘That’s why I do this music business thing, it’s communication with people without having the extreme inconvenience of actually phoning anybody up.’”

Jeeny: “A very Morrissey thing to say. Cynical, self-aware, and painfully honest.”

Jack: “Or just practical. Who really wants to deal with the chaos of actual conversation? Music’s cleaner. You say everything you need to say — no interruptions, no awkward silences, no small talk. Just sound and meaning.”

Jeeny: “Except you’re still talking — you’ve just outsourced the listening.”

Jack: “That’s the beauty of it. You get to speak to millions without having to face one.”

Host: The wind whispered around them, carrying the distant sound of a band from a bar below. The bass throbbed, the notes spilled into the sky like messages without names.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the tragedy too? Music is a conversation where one side never gets to answer.”

Jack: “Depends on your definition of answer. Every person who listens adds their own echo. You write pain — someone else hears hope. You write loneliness — someone else hears home. That’s how it works. It’s a silent dialogue.”

Jeeny: “A monologue dressed as empathy.”

Jack: “Maybe empathy doesn’t need two voices.”

Jeeny: “It does if you want to grow. Otherwise, you’re just performing to your own reflection.”

Host: A pause hung between them, filled by the city’s pulse — sirens, music, the throb of a world that never sleeps. The moon slid from behind a cloud, painting their faces in silver and shadow.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Morrissey really meant? That music is his shield. It lets him be vulnerable without being seen.”

Jack: “Exactly. He’s not hiding — he’s translating. Some people pray, others scream. He writes songs. It’s communication through distance. I understand that.”

Jeeny: “Of course you do. You’ve been doing it your whole life — writing people instead of talking to them.”

Jack: half-smiling “You say that like it’s a crime.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a crime. It’s just lonely.”

Jack: “Lonely’s the price of clarity. You think better when no one interrupts.”

Jeeny: “You feel less when no one interrupts.”

Host: The sound of laughter rose from the street below, a crowd singing along to an old song — something by The Smiths, maybe. The chorus floated up, melancholy and defiant.

Jeeny: “You hear that? That’s the irony. Morrissey writes about isolation, and thousands of strangers sing it together.”

Jack: “That’s the paradox of connection — loneliness becomes communion.”

Jeeny: “But what happens when the music ends? When everyone goes home and the echo fades?”

Jack: “Then you write another song. Because silence is unbearable.”

Jeeny: “Or you pick up the phone.”

Jack: “Phones don’t fix silence. They just fill it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe, but at least it’s a voice. A heartbeat.”

Jack: “Music’s a heartbeat too — louder, truer, more eternal.”

Jeeny: “But not intimate.”

Jack: “Intimacy isn’t always necessary. Sometimes it’s enough to be understood in fragments.”

Host: A plane passed overhead, its lights blinking, tracing a path through the dark sky like a thought escaping gravity. Jack watched it, his voice low, almost confessional.

Jack: “When I was younger, I wrote songs just to talk to people I couldn’t reach. Exes. Friends. My father. People who wouldn’t pick up if I called. It felt easier to turn their ghosts into chords.”

Jeeny: “So every song is a missed call?”

Jack: “Yeah. A voicemail for the world.”

Jeeny: “Then I guess the world’s been listening.”

Jack: “Listening, maybe. But not answering.”

Host: The wind caught her hair, lifting it like threads of smoke, as she studied him — a man shaped by his own silence, haunted by the ease of distance.

Jeeny: “You know, music is beautiful, but it’s also safe. You control the tempo, the ending, the silence. Real communication isn’t safe — it’s raw, unpredictable. You can’t edit a conversation.”

Jack: “That’s the problem. You can’t edit it. One wrong word and everything collapses. At least in art, you can rewrite the heartbreak.”

Jeeny: “But art without risk is just noise.”

Host: The city wind grew colder, the skyline burning with light. Jack set his glass down, the ice now melted, and turned toward Jeeny, his expression softer, less armor, more ache.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve been writing to avoid people, not reach them.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Morrissey was admitting too. Music was his wall and his bridge.”

Jack: “A bridge that never quite reached the other side.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it did — he just didn’t walk across.”

Jack: “You really think connection is that simple?”

Jeeny: “Not simple. Just necessary.”

Jack: “And terrifying.”

Jeeny: “Everything meaningful is.”

Host: The silence that followed was not empty; it was electric, alive with the weight of what was unspoken. The city below murmured, steady, infinite, like a pulse that refused to stop.

Jeeny: “Maybe music is humanity’s way of saying ‘I miss you’ without naming who ‘you’ is.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s enough.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you ever want to know who’s listening?”

Jack: “Maybe not. Some things lose meaning when you look them in the eye.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they finally become real.”

Host: The moonlight shifted, drawing silver lines across the table, the bottles, the spaces between their words.

Jack: “You know, if I called you instead of meeting like this, I’d probably hang up halfway through.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s a good thing music doesn’t need a dial tone.”

Jack: “Or courage.”

Jeeny: “No. It still needs courage — the kind that comes from showing your soul and hoping someone hears it.”

Host: Her voice fell to a whisper, the kind that lingers longer than sound.

Jack: “Maybe that’s all communication ever is — trying to be heard without the risk of being touched.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the point of love — or art — is to risk it anyway.”

Host: The night air stilled. The music from below faded, the city quieting to a soft hum. Jack looked out over the lights, his reflection caught faintly in the window — a man half-hidden, half-seen.

Jeeny stood, walked to his side, and rested a hand on the railing. Their shoulders almost touched.

Jack: “Maybe Morrissey was right — music is communication without conversation. But sometimes I wonder what he might have heard if he’d picked up the phone.”

Jeeny: “Maybe just silence. Or maybe someone saying, ‘I understand.’”

Host: The camera would pull back then — the rooftop, the city, two souls framed by light and distance. The final image: Jack and Jeeny, together but apart, connected through the unspoken, as the wind carried the last note of a song only they could hear.

Host: And beneath it all, the echo of Morrissey’s truth —
that the most human conversations are often the ones we never quite have,
yet somehow, through art,
we listen anyway.