There's a lot of beauty in the world, so go hang out and go be a

Host: The city was breathing slow that evening — a kind of tired sigh that only came after rain. Streetlights glistened in the wet asphalt, and the air carried that post-storm scent — earth, petrol, and a hint of hope. In a rooftop bar overlooking the river, the sky still glowed faintly violet, as if it hadn’t quite decided to give in to night.

Jack sat by the edge, a glass of bourbon in his hand, his shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms tense. His eyes, grey and sharp, reflected the city’s shimmer like a man caught between light and regret. Jeeny, in a loose white sweater, leaned against the railing, her hair still damp, her face lit by the soft pulse of neon from a nearby sign.

Host: On the radio, someone was talking about Mac Miller, and his voice — young, tender, and worn — came through:
"There's a lot of beauty in the world, so go hang out and go be a part of the solution rather than the problem."

Jack smiled, but it was the kind that hurt more than it healed.

Jack: “You know what’s sad, Jeeny? He was right — and he still couldn’t stay. You tell people to look for beauty, to be part of the solution, but the darkness doesn’t listen.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why he said it, Jack. Because he knew how easy it is to sink into the problem. It takes a braver heart to even try to be part of the light.”

Host: The wind picked up, lifting a few napkins from the table, twirling them like tiny ghosts over the edge. Jack’s voice came out low, almost a growl, half philosophy, half confession.

Jack: “You talk about light like it’s something people can just choose. But what if all they’ve ever known is dark? Some people don’t need motivation, Jeeny. They need a map.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly what his words are — a map. Not to avoid the dark, but to walk through it without becoming it.”

Jack: “But people don’t listen. They scroll, they like, they move on. You can shout hope from the rooftops, and they’ll still go back to doomscrolling and numbness.”

Jeeny: “That’s not everyone. You don’t need the whole world to change — just one person who hears you. Maybe that’s what he believed. That even a small shift matters.”

Host: The lights from the bridge below rippled across the river, bending and breaking with every wave. The city’s hum was like a heartbeat — steady, distant, alive.

Jack: “You always think like that. Like the world’s full of little miracles. But come on, Jeeny — look around. The planet’s burning, people are divided, and everyone’s too tired to care. You really think beauty is enough?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. But I think seeing beauty is the first step to saving it. When you stop seeing what’s beautiful, you start to justify what’s ugly. That’s how apathy wins.”

Jack: “So, what — we just go around admiring sunsets and hope the world heals itself?”

Jeeny: “No. We act — but we act because we still believe it’s worth saving. That’s what ‘being part of the solution’ means. Not being naïve — being aware and still choosing to care.”

Host: The music from the bar — a soft acoustic guitar — drifted into their silence. A bartender laughed somewhere inside. The sky had cleared now, and a single star glimmered, small but stubborn.

Jack: “You sound like one of those optimists that history forgets. You know who the world remembers? The ones who break it — because they change it.”

Jeeny: “You mean the destroyers. But what about the ones who heal it? You just don’t hear about them because healing doesn’t make headlines.”

Jack: “Healing’s too slow. The world doesn’t have the patience for slow.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why it keeps bleeding.”

Host: Her words hit him like rain on stone — not hard, but persistent, soaking into the cracks. He looked down at his hands, scarred, strong, stained from years of work and fighting for what he thought mattered.

Jack: “You know, I used to think the solution was control. Make things efficient, make people accountable, make systems tight. But it didn’t make them better. Just colder.”

Jeeny: “Because the solution isn’t about control, Jack. It’s about connection. You can’t fix the world without feeling it.”

Jack: “Feeling hurts.”

Jeeny: “So does numbness — it just takes longer to realize.”

Host: The moonlight had found them now — soft, silver, merciful. The river shimmered, and for a moment, even the noise of the city seemed to pause, as if to listen.

Jack: “You really think there’s that much beauty left? After everything we’ve done to it?”

Jeeny: “There’s always beauty, Jack. It doesn’t vanish — it just waits for us to notice it again. Like a song you forgot you loved.”

Jack: “And if people stop listening altogether?”

Jeeny: “Then we keep singing — until someone hears. That’s what Mac was saying. Don’t just talk about the ugly; live the beautiful. Be the part that still shines.”

Host: A plane passed overhead, its lights trailing across the sky like a brief streak of hope. Jack watched it until it disappeared, then sighed, the kind of sigh that admits surrender.

Jack: “You know, I used to think the world needed more fighters. But maybe it needs more gardeners.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. People who plant, even when they won’t be the ones to see the bloom.”

Jack: “That’s terrifyingly selfless.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s human. We’re here for such a short time, Jack. Why not spend it adding to the beauty, not subtracting from it?”

Host: The city below had begun to glow brighter — streetlights, apartments, windows of life flickering one by one, like the world itself was reawakening.

Jack: “So maybe that’s the solution, huh? Not fixing everything, just not giving up on anything.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because hope isn’t about being blind to what’s wrong. It’s about seeing it clearly — and still choosing to act beautifully.”

Jack: “Mac would’ve liked that.”

Jeeny: “He’d have written a song about it.”

Host: They both laughed, softly, the kind of laughter that belongs to people who’ve finally understood the same truth.

The wind danced through Jeeny’s hair, lifting a few strands into the night, and Jack watched, a quiet smile forming, eyes gentle, tired, but alive.

Host: The camera would pull back now — the rooftop, the river, the city, and above it all, that sliver of moon, pale and certain.

Two figures, small against the sky, still talking, still believing, still part of the solution.

Because somewhere beneath all the noise, the chaos, and the hurt, the world was still beautiful —
and beauty, as Mac once said,
was the beginning of every solution worth living for.