Trying to think of something to write about this morning, my mind could focus on nothing but the vast emptiness of space, "starless and Bible-black" as Dylan Thomas might say.
Occasionally, a small plasma bubble of theme would silently drift through this void, only to vanish again into a gaping maw of dark matter or find itself eventually eclipsed by a frozen sun.
Oxygenless astronauts, Supernova debris, rusting satellites long-since inactive, all made a brief orbit of the inner belt of my mind but disappeared into an abyss of nothingness.
Pluto had nothing to say. Venus had other places to be. The rings of Saturn merely muttered amongst themselves. Uranus coughed politely but kept its own counsel. 'Don't kill the messenger,' whispered Mercury. 'But you've got writer's block.'
But from a distant galaxy, bouncing off fogbound moons and echoing through layers of dead plasma, came the muffled tinkle of the Music of the Spheres. It sounded not unlike The Chicken Dance song.
So I sat down and wrote this while waiting for the Big Synapse Bang.