We have got to change our ethics and our financial system and our

Host: The evening hung heavy with the scent of rain and smoke, the sky bruised purple over the city’s skyline. Somewhere below, the hum of traffic rose like a restless heartbeat. In an old warehouse-turned-studio, every inch of space breathed rebellion — half-painted walls, splattered canvases, old posters of protests and punk shows curling at the edges.

A single lightbulb swayed from the ceiling, throwing long shadows over the clutter — a sewing machine, rolls of fabric, and a mannequin draped in something that looked like a revolution disguised as art.

Jack stood by the open window, cigarette between his fingers, the smoke drifting lazily toward the streetlights outside. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scraps of cloth, thread, and a half-finished banner that read in bold red paint: “LIVE, DON’T CONSUME.”

Jeeny: “Vivienne Westwood once said, ‘We have got to change our ethics and our financial system and our whole way of understanding the world. It has to be a world in which people live rather than die; a sustainable world. It could be great.’”

Jack: “Westwood — the punk queen turned prophet. She always knew how to sew chaos into truth.”

Host: His voice carried both admiration and irony — like someone too aware of the beauty in a lost cause.

Jeeny: “It’s not chaos. It’s clarity. She’s right — the world doesn’t have to burn the way it does. We’ve built our lives on greed and called it growth.”

Jack: “And what would you replace it with? Love and linen?”

Jeeny: “Why not? We’ve tried profit and power for centuries, and it’s killing us.”

Host: The rain outside began to fall harder, beating against the windowpane with the rhythm of urgency. Jack flicked his ash into a cracked mug, eyes distant, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “You talk like revolution’s a fashion statement. Change the fabric, change the cut, save the world.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about fabric, Jack. It’s about fabric of life. Everything connects — the clothes we wear, the food we eat, the systems we defend. Westwood saw it. She was saying: stop dying for convenience.”

Jack: “Convenience is survival for some people. You talk about sustainability like everyone has the luxury to choose it. Some people are just trying to make it through the week.”

Jeeny: “And why do you think that is? Because the system’s designed to keep it that way. You can’t talk about ethics without talking about economics. Sustainability isn’t about privilege — it’s about justice.”

Host: The lightbulb flickered, the shadows stretching like ghosts of older debates. The wind pushed against the window, carrying the faint sound of sirens — the modern city’s lullaby.

Jack: “You sound like every activist who ever believed they could rebuild the world with slogans.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like every realist who mistook despair for wisdom.”

Jack: “No, I’m just old enough to know that systems don’t break — they adapt. They absorb rebellion, rebrand it, and sell it back to you at twice the price.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why ethics has to change. The problem isn’t that the system can’t evolve — it’s that we refuse to stop feeding it.”

Host: Jack turned from the window, his eyes sharp now, the cigarette burning dangerously low between his fingers.

Jack: “So what’s your plan? Burn the banks? Ban plastic? Wear hemp and call it a revolution?”

Jeeny: “No. Start smaller. Refuse to participate in cruelty. Live slower. Think before you buy. Speak before you’re silent. You don’t dismantle a system with rage — you dismantle it by starving it of obedience.”

Host: A silence settled — thick, uneasy. Jack stubbed out the cigarette and walked toward her, stepping over spools of thread and scattered papers.

Jack: “You think people will do that? Give up comfort for conscience?”

Jeeny: “They have before. Not all at once — but piece by piece. Change always starts with the ones crazy enough to believe in it.”

Jack: “And ends with those too tired to maintain it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that doesn’t make it any less necessary.”

Host: The rain softened now, becoming more a whisper than a warning. Jeeny picked up a strip of fabric and ran her fingers over it — slow, thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Vivienne meant? That we’re not broken — just misdirected. We’ve mistaken consumption for creativity, capitalism for civilization. We’ve forgotten that progress without empathy is just destruction in better packaging.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But the world doesn’t run on empathy. It runs on incentives.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the incentives are the problem.”

Jack: “And who gets to rewrite them? You? Me? A handful of artists in a crumbling studio?”

Jeeny: “Every revolution starts in a room like this, Jack. Someone has to say it first.”

Host: She rose then, standing near him — her shadow almost merging with his in the soft light. The banner behind her, half-painted, glowed red in the lamplight like an open wound.

Jack: “You really believe people can live differently?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Jack: “The point’s survival.”

Jeeny: “Survival’s not enough. Not if we forget how to live in the process.”

Host: Her words hit him harder than he wanted to admit. He looked away, out toward the city lights blinking beneath the rain. It was a city built on ambition — burning through fuel, through people, through time itself.

Jack: “You think it could really be great? This sustainable world of yours?”

Jeeny: “Not mine. Ours. It’ll only happen if people stop waiting for permission.”

Jack: “And if they don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then we die beautifully, knowing we tried.”

Host: A small laugh escaped him — not mocking, but weary, like a man who’d spent too long on the sidelines of idealism.

Jack: “You really are dangerous when you sound hopeful.”

Jeeny: “Hope’s the only rebellion left.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked faintly. Outside, the rain slowed to a mist. The city below glowed softer now, as though listening. Jack took a deep breath, ran a hand through his hair, and finally sat beside her.

Jack: “So what do we do first?”

Jeeny smiled — that quiet, knowing smile of someone who’s already begun.

Jeeny: “We start small. One honest choice at a time. And we don’t stop.”

Host: She handed him a brush, dipped in red paint. For a moment, he hesitated — then took it. Together, they bent over the banner, finishing the last word in bold strokes: “LIVE.”

Outside, the wind shifted — carrying away the smoke, the noise, the weight of apathy.

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the two of them illuminated by that single flickering bulb, their faces half in shadow, half in flame. Around them, chaos and creation mingled like old lovers.

And above it all, Vivienne Westwood’s voice echoed like a manifesto for the living:

Change isn’t impossible — it’s just inconvenient. But if we choose life over luxury, creation over consumption, the world won’t just survive. It could be great.