My hand moves.
A thread tugs my frontal lobes.
At the other end,
my ancient brain blazes a light
like a Christmas star
across those hills barely seen.
Maybe the thread spans a river,
vast and microscopic at the same time,
forever and now.
The nature of things
gifts me with joy,
but clogs me with arrogance
so that I am in constant flux,
a cartoon on each shoulder,
each negotiating a place to go.
Gravity will force a flow
that drains the flood plain and
lets my hand move.
(pen: en.wikipedia.org; dog: writetodone.com)
Narble Furt Lives 
Very nice! Ah, wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to bypass the ego when we write, or at least the critical brain–from inspiration to finger tips without passing Go!
We can get to that place, I think, but we’re human so we make it difficult. The ego is more useful when we seek publication. Otherwise, it’s in the way.