I heart that today my job asks me to answer this question: “what does Thucydides think of poets?”

Like yesterday a woman next to me in line at the post office was hurriedly putting a package together, using every stray element on her person make a passably postal skin as an elderly woman also in the line in exuberant pink lipstick and pancake makeup watched her from an intimate distance. Lipstick taps Hurry on the shoulder, “were you born in December?” Hurry, surprised, “why yes.” Lipstick, “I can tell.”