Like James, he’s dabbled in poetry. “My God, it was really pretentious shit,” he says of his high school verse. “I would write a poem out in the most simple terms, and then I would go through the thesaurus and find these elite replacements for them.” His laugh spins out of control, like he’s having a coughing fit. I ask if he can remember any of his compositions. “Oh man, I bet I can,” he says. He fixates on the wall with a thoughtful smile as he jogs his memory, and then recites: “When I look into my grandma’s eyes / I see the light of day / When she looks back at me / She sees herself, I hope.” The poem’s titled “Grandma,” Dave tells me.