You buried me right where I belonged and still I'm waiting there

How I have been doing this long weekend is not very well, in ways generically and specifically disheartening, but it has interested me to discover that while I have to do it by hand with pencil and paper, as if it's muscle memory rather than mental recall, I can still scan classical Greek sufficient to fake a Homeric epithet for our Hestia, slayer of towels: μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ τέκνου Ἥρας μακτροφόνοιο. (She sang to us earlier this evening of her triumph over the roll we were still using.) The attentive reader may note that I am relying heavily on both Attic and epic correption and an eighth-century audience would think I didn't know my theogony, but it makes me feel better.