She'd been sitting with the notebook open, music playing, ideas branching off each other. One thought sparked another, which sparked two more; they just seemed to appear and flow.

He'd been working on the canvas for hours, one color suggesting the next, a shape on the left asking for an echo on the right. The painting was telling him what it wanted. His hands kept moving ahead of his thinking.

She'd been in the kitchen since noon, pulling things out of the fridge, one ingredient suggesting the next. The dish wasn't planned; it was emerging. She tasted and added and tasted again; it was going somewhere.