As contemplation begins, the customary stroking of the hairy growth around the chin area that men are wont to call a beard begins. Inspiratory technique is begun. The eyes roam around the surroundings, in search of a suitable target. No target acquired. The fingers cease their chinny caress.
The sound of beard scratching is gone and all that remains is the noise of a gently idling computer, undisturbed by writerly motions and notions.
*clunk, clunk, rustle, clunk, squeak, squeak*
The guinea pigs are on the move. Their regular abode abandoned during the wintery weather, they begin their nocturnal ramblings in the indoor sanctum.
*rattleclatter, clink, clink*
It's programme complete, somewhere in the kitcheny region, the dishwasher is divulging it's culinary-catching and creating paraphernalia. Their surfaces shiny and rinsed, they are being returned once more to their cupboard-based depths to lurk in darkness until hunger calls.
A metaphorical noise. Inspiration strikes. Also metaphorically otherwise it would have shortly been accompanied by the sound "ow". The fingers flex and poise. They are ready. The dance begins...
*click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack....*