With the word creative we stand under a mystery. And from time to time that mystery, as if it were a sun, sends down upon one head or another, a sudden shaft of light—by grace, one feels, rather than deserving, for it always is something given, free, unsought, unexpected. It is useless, possibly even profane, to ask for an explanation.
The Sun said to the Clouds, "Remember when we used to be together all the time and make rainbows?"
The Clouds nodded. "I'm sorry for going clap bang boom! at you," said the Clouds.
"I'm sorry for going sizzle sizzle sizzle! at you," said the Sun.
"It's better being friends!" said the Sun, and the Clouds agreed. They hugged. The Sun shined brightly and the Clouds misted happy rain. Ever so slowly, rainbows reappeared near and far, turning the world colorful once again.