He laughs. He laughs and it's almost a scoff, but more gritty and far less pretentious.

"Of what I play? You got Google machines and willy-pedia, my man, you didn't have to send in a request. Hella glad you did, this is on top."

He knows exactly what Oliver is talking about. He doesn't get many visitors--three that he can remember, vaguely--and they always asked. Always. He used to feel bad--used to. He's buried all of that away. There's a reason he's so talkative.

If he talks, he can't get lost in his own mind. Can't think about it too hard.

"Not that I'm complaing, I do like the view." He reaches with his foot underneath the desk to pull out a stool with wheels and kick it in the others direction as an invitation to sit and stay.

The numbers won't come to him if someone else is there. He's sure. Just like he was positive there was a wheeled stool underneath his desk the whole time despite never using it himself. He can't--or won't--tell Oliver about the list. Not right away. Hell, maybe not ever.

"So what's you're story behind this? Guy on the record sure seems nice."