My bads.

Whoopsie daisies. I've made another rare mistake. Turns out, I've been spelling Nabakov wrong this whole time; on my video and on my blog. My Bad.

Its Vladimir Nabokov with an o.


From my random mind, here is a poem on death. Actually, it's been on my mind for awhile now, on account of how its hanging in Mr. Decker's room, and I had him for AP Psych last year.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!
- Mary Frye 



I enjoy this.

Mr. Hill,  I believe I smell brownie points.