[ he muses over the answer to his poetry question until martin actually has to get up from the chair and follow him, and then he finds he's giggling in spite of himself, pushing his knuckles against his mouth to try to muffle it. ]

S-Sorry, it's just-- what a silly curse. It's okay, though, don't worry. [ the bathroom is as clean as the kitchen, and he gets bandaids and antiseptic out of the medicine cabinet. ] Since we're here, I reckon you can clean up your hand in here, too.

[ he leans against the wall to let martin clean the blood off, brain drifting back to the poetry as he does. ] .. Just because you're not good at it doesn't mean you should give it up, [ he says at last, forgetting that they've technically moved on from the subject. ] And who said you weren't good at it? Were you writing for them?