I sat and stared at the blank page for at least five minutes before I realized that I truly didn’t have anything to write. My first thought was that there is an inherent lack of creativity creeping in on my part. My second thought was about a cheeseburger, and my third thought confirmed the first: I’m sure there are plenty of limericks I could disgorge, and, of course, I could espouse the horror of astronaut-as-career. But, quite frankly, I don’t want to do that today. Or yesterday. Instead, I’d rather write something with meaning, a greater significance, if you will. Maybe I’ll do that tomorrow; I’ve already written a paragraph, after all.