[He can tell his words don't stick, even a slightly more personal admittance of poetry and how it relates to being a good (or bad) person. But V isn't offended; he isn't even surprised, and he crosses his arms against his chest.]

William Blake is memorized. [Though he still misses the feel of a leather-bound book weighted against his hands, the fine tooth of a page as he turned each one. It isn't the same, even reading from memory.] But I'm not an endless fount of literary knowledge, sorry to disappoint. I'll have to read to you anything else, from any other author.

[Is he having fun, though? A shrug of his shoulders.]

I don't often go to parties. [Ever.] I told you I wasn't suited for them. But it could be worse. It's... interesting, being here.

[Ill-suited as V is to rowdiness and activities made for extroverts, it's still a chance to learn about this world. Experience one side of what it has to offer. He can't say that he was ever bored.]