“Why is the measure of love loss?”

- the opening line of Jeanette Winterson’s Written on the Body

I have eaten very little this week. At night I watch televangelists and self help gurus who promise to change my negative thinking patterns. But just watching their program does no good, you have to purchase something for the magic to happen. You have to send some money for your life to turn around. I wonder how many people slit their wrists on the way to their pocketbooks to fish out their credit cards.

I conversed with my buddy S.E. today over coffee at The Mill, a coffeehouse downtown, in the Haymarket District. This is a place I rarely go these days, but when I first moved to Lincoln it was the place I most frequented to write and get out of my apartment. Many nights I sat alone on the terrace of that place with a composition book and an insatiable fascination with the red neon lights shining on the brick building across the street. But today, I sat inside and discussed everything from his time living in an isolated cabin in Oregon to me having trouble organizing my novel.