[that just means that there's a promise for v to read poetry to prompto at later points into the future, something which he won't be complaining about nor be picky about—whether v reads or recites something from memory. it's the same conduit, after all, and it's the man's delivery which has prompto so full of a feeling he can't quite convey, nothing else.]

[so he just sits here, attention on v, because that's all his primitive monkey brain can do without exerting too much energy.]

Well, you can just not go to any other party. Remind me not to throw y'one for your birthday. Get you instead a mic and a crowd to recite poems to, yeah?