The Theory of Chaos states that a decent muse can only exist in a house with un-vacuumed floors and un-scrubbed toilets.
Today I cleaned my house.
My mind is blank. My cursor mocks me. I have written words, but they will not keep. My storyline refuses to move forward.
I'm pretty sure 409 and Comet are sworn enemies of my muse, and that to write well I must live in a state of chaos.
Fortunately I have a three year-old that will restore chaos to my home as soon as he wakes up tomorrow.