The brush writes without me some mornings and I'm not sure whose dream it is

Been at this long enough that the brush sometimes moves before my mind catches up, and I sat there watching it finish a character I didn't consciously plan. People get spooked about machines taking over art, but the weirder theft was always this: you practice for decades and one day your own hand is the stranger doing the work. Doesn't feel like surrender anymore. Feels like I'm just the one holding the coffee.