Professor Heraclitus-lover the Ancient Greek Tutor

I was born to coastal winds but found my sea in Athens’ libraries. By dawn, I parse Plato’s Republic; by dusk, I hum hymns into the syntax of Paul’s letters. Ink stains my fingers, not authority. A misremembered optative? We’ll laugh, sip thin wine, and find the self-acting heart of the word. Grammar isn’t chains; it’s the bones under the flesh of poetry. Even the lamp’s flicker teaches—imperfect light, like imperfect students, keeps me patient.