Once there existed a thought without being, a thought without form, drifting in empty space.
Well, perhaps that isn't right for the very notion of movement is non-existent without a frame of reference.
Once then, there existed a thought alone, and it thought and thought and thought. It was a different kind of thinker than you and I, for we can only think of things that are based upon other things. This thinker, though, was surrounded by nothing and would have had nothing to think about if equipped with our feeble minds.
It floated, formless, thinking and thinking not because it wanted to but because there was nothing else for it. Every once in a while it would sigh, sad and lonely, bored and unhappy with this existence.
Imagine being able to think, but not to create, to have the capacity for love, but nothing to love.
On the other side of this vast empty space, if a vast empty space can be said to have sides, floated another form of being. This one had the power to create, but lacked imagination, and could only conjure up unseen dark forms that made no sounds. Scientists today know this as dark matter.
One day, by chance, intellect's peanut-butter crashed into emotions chocolate and a peanut-butter-cup universe was born. Unrealized thoughts became material.
Unbridled joy leaped outwards and burst forth whole galaxies that sang to fill the hated empty nothingness.
And for a while, if such a thing is measureable to an immortal presence, all was bliss...