The food that enters the mind must be watched as closely as the

Host: The diner sat alone on the edge of the highway, its neon sign — Open 24 Hours — flickering like a tired heartbeat against the midnight fog. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of burnt coffee, grease, and rain-soaked leather. The jukebox hummed softly in the corner, spinning a song no one was listening to.

Jack sat in the booth nearest the window, his grey eyes fixed on the reflection of the neon, one hand wrapped around a chipped mug. His plate sat untouched — eggs congealed, toast untouched, mind somewhere far beyond the table. Across from him, Jeeny watched, her hands folded, a look of calm curiosity on her face.

Jeeny: “You’re quiet tonight.”

Jack: “Just trying to digest.”

Jeeny: “The food or the thoughts?”

Jack: “Both taste the same lately — heavy, overcooked, and hard to swallow.”

Host: Outside, a truck passed, its headlights washing across the diner’s glass, then disappearing into the dark. The rain tapped the window like a nervous metronome, marking time between confessions.

Jeeny: “You know what Pat Buchanan once said? ‘The food that enters the mind must be watched as closely as the food that enters the body.’”

Jack: “Sounds like something a man would say before turning off the news and burning his library.”

Jeeny: “Or before realizing that junk ideas can poison just as fast as junk food.”

Jack: “So what are we supposed to do? Read kale?”

Jeeny: “Maybe think before we swallow.”

Host: Jack chuckled, but there was no humor in it — just a weary recognition of truth. He stirred his coffee, the spoon clinking against the cup like a slow heartbeat.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, I used to think consuming information made me smarter — the more I read, the more I knew. But lately, it feels like I’m just overeating on outrage. Every headline is salt. Every opinion, sugar. My mind’s bloated.”

Jeeny: “That’s the illusion of knowledge — mistaking appetite for understanding.”

Jack: “And you? You still read everything?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m on a diet.”

Jack: “A diet?”

Jeeny: “Of noise. I cut out the empty calories — the gossip, the anger, the tribal certainty. I only feed my mind what helps me stay human.”

Jack: “That’s easier said than done when the world’s shoving a buffet down your throat.”

Host: The waitress, a woman with tired eyes and a kind smile, refilled their cups without a word. Steam rose, carrying with it the faint smell of burnt beans and sleeplessness.

Jeeny: “It’s not about shutting the world out, Jack. It’s about learning how to taste again — not gulp.”

Jack: “You make it sound like discernment’s a luxury.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s survival. You are what you consume — mentally and physically.”

Jack: “Then I’m made of caffeine, cynicism, and political rot.”

Jeeny: “Then detox.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, simple but sharp, the way truth always lands — quietly, but with weight. Jack looked down at his hands, the faint tremor of exhaustion visible even in stillness.

Jack: “You really think it’s possible to filter it all? To stay informed without being infected?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But you have to know the difference between thinking and reacting. The media feeds on the latter — emotion is their sugar. They keep you hooked on outrage because calm minds don’t click.”

Jack: “So, what? Ignorance is enlightenment now?”

Jeeny: “No. Awareness is. But awareness without intention is just consumption.”

Jack: “You’re starting to sound like a philosopher trapped in a nutritionist’s body.”

Jeeny: “And you’re sounding like a man mistaking addiction for engagement.”

Host: The rain thickened, drumming harder against the glass. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated Jack’s face — thoughtful, tense, as though a war was being waged behind his eyes.

Jack: “You ever notice how we can’t stop feeding the machine? Even when we know it’s killing us?”

Jeeny: “Because it gives us identity. People confuse information with meaning. They’d rather be full than wise.”

Jack: “And you think you’re immune?”

Jeeny: “No. But I’ve learned to chew slowly.”

Jack: “And what if the only things left to consume are poisoned?”

Jeeny: “Then you plant your own garden.”

Host: The neon sign outside buzzed, half the letters dying with a faint pop — PEN 24 OURS. The broken light bathed their table in half-truths, half-glow. It seemed poetic — and fitting.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought my mind was invincible — that I could watch anything, read anything, and stay clean. But I was wrong. I’ve been filled with fear, rage, and algorithms disguised as ideas. My thoughts aren’t mine anymore — they’re sponsored.”

Jeeny: “Then unsubscribe.”

Jack: “To what? The world?”

Jeeny: “No. To manipulation. To the belief that you have to react to everything. Let silence be your filter.”

Host: A long pause. The rain softened. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle cried, a long, low note that sounded almost like mourning.

Jack: “You really think silence can fix the mind?”

Jeeny: “Not fix. Heal. Silence is the fasting of thought.”

Jack: “And what happens when we starve?”

Jeeny: “We find hunger’s true shape.”

Host: Jack leaned back, smiling faintly — not out of joy, but the rare satisfaction of hearing something real in a world addicted to noise. He looked out the window, the highway stretching infinitely beyond the diner, dotted with headlights — travelers chasing destinations they couldn’t see.

Jack: “So maybe Buchanan wasn’t just warning us about propaganda.”

Jeeny: “No. He was warning us about indulgence — the gluttony of thought. How easily ideas become comfort food.”

Jack: “And how easily comfort becomes control.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The jukebox shifted tracks — an old jazz melody filled the space, soft and wandering. Jeeny sipped her coffee, her eyes reflecting the rhythm of it — patient, thoughtful.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. We count calories for our bodies, but not for our beliefs.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we should. Maybe every lie should come with a label: high in manipulation, low in truth.”

Jack: “You’d put the media out of business.”

Jeeny: “No. I’d just make the public conscious again.”

Host: The rain finally stopped. The air inside the diner felt lighter — as though the storm had washed something unseen from their thoughts.

Jack picked up his fork, finally taking a bite of the cold eggs. He grimaced, then laughed softly.

Jack: “You’re right. Everything tastes better when you stop swallowing mindlessly.”

Jeeny: “And every truth sounds clearer when you stop feeding on noise.”

Host: Outside, the fog lifted, revealing a stretch of empty road under the faint glow of dawn. Inside, two souls sat at a corner booth, the smell of stale coffee mingling with something purer — understanding.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny... maybe the mind doesn’t need to be fed all the time.”

Jeeny: “No. Sometimes, it just needs to fast — and remember what hunger feels like.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the neon light finally dying with a soft hiss. The diner stood still in the quiet morning, a lone island of thought in a world still feasting on noise.

And in that small, flickering silence — amid cold coffee, half-truths, and weary hearts — they discovered what Buchanan meant:

That guarding the mind isn’t censorship —
it’s self-respect.