You know? When it just hits you like that, like a summer storm, crazy and furious, full of ideas, words, screams, pain, smiles, sun rises, promises and tears. Full of tomorrows. Like a giant metaphor, it runs until the very end of the cliff and then it jumps. And it flies. Suddenly it has wings that you didn't see before and becomes a little bird, or an eagle, or a seagull. And it flies away, dancing with the wind, and before you can even think of it, define it, or guess what it was and where did it come from, it has gone. Far, far away. Before you catch it in a white paper, this fantastic, misterious, impossible and shining thing called inspiration has escaped to a better place. And you have to deal with it, poor and frustrated writer.