A poet. Maybe it's stupid - no, it's definitely stupid - but Martin nearly drops his own chopsticks at that. Nobody's ever called him a poet before. He writes poetry, and sometimes (rarely) people ask about his poetry. In fact he can only recall two occasions through his partial stupor: Basira once dubiously uttering 'you write poetry?' which had been a little insulting, if probably earned; and John asking 'how's the poetry' that one very awkward time. It's never been poet. Not even he thinks that about himself; it's just a hobby, really.

Of course, John is very drunk and saying a lot of very silly things, and Martin is very drunk, and feeling everything very much. It seems likelier that John used a word without thinking much of it, and that Martin gave it way too much importance, which is pretty pathetic, which is also earned.

Breekon & Hope is there to seize him out of this soppy existential mire, and Martin's nose wrinkles as he realizes that was exactly what it had reminded him of, too. It's a good sound-pairing, not like they've cornered that market with their big nondescript... bigness, and their stupid fake accents. But John's already moving ahead. Martin struggles to keep up.

"That sounds..." He squints, trying to arrive at something, but it's getting harder and harder to think. Why bother, honestly. He waves his hand as if swatting the idea away. "Too complicated," he says, nearly tripping over the word in three places. "Too many words." Things need to be easy to say. Right now especially.

"What if it's just. The Archive." He raises his hands and gestures like he's envisioning a marquee. Then he snorts and hunches back over the remains of his noodles. "That'd get their attention."