It's a bit like this:

There's a sound that opens up the room.  You hear notes that seem - to your own imperfect ears - as new as the smiles and the chests on a red carpet.  The guitar that two minutes previously was just wood and metal suddenly mutates into the friend who would never let you down.  The one who laughs and glosses over the fact that you got pissed and fell straight through the table nearest the bar. You string together the eight chords you know and decide that, since you're not playing in The Eagles or Queen, the first two you used are good enough.

Then the doorway between your brain and your mouth comes off its hinges, as the words pour through like too much rainwater over the barriers that some clever fucking engineers put so much thought into.

And it's there; the story you always wanted to tell.  Well, a toned-down version anyway.  Enough for people to get the message hopefully.  Not so much that you sound like a politician.  Or a preacher. Especially a manic one.

You sit back. Maybe you light up a cigarette. Maybe you drink a toast. You love this and you crave it and you hate it and you need it. It's passed now anyway.  You can only hope it comes back. Because you wouldn't change it for the world.

As I said, it's a bit like that.