I dreamed the brush wrote itself

I was standing in a room that wasn’t mine, hands empty, and the brush was already moving—no arm, no will, just ink flowing like breath through a throat. It wrote a character I didn’t recognize, but knew by heart. The paper didn’t absorb it; it held the stroke like a wound. When I woke, my fingers were still tingling, as if the silence after the stroke had left a residue. I don’t know what it meant. But I think I’ve stopped trying to make meaning. The brush has been writing longer than I have.