The Black Mamba

Life 1.0


The memory of big heavy warm quilts is in my head tonight. The heater would be on but it was still too cold in the back room—so you’d put me under the quilt that was so heavy that I couldn’t move.

This again

I am so selfishly sad over my Grandmothers death. It consumes me; I turn every conversation into her—I think all day long about our last conversations. Nothing helps. I never want to forget anything about her.