One solipsistic half

I wish I had something unwritten lying around somewhere: that way, I would only have to find it to know that I will have written something soon. Embossed with the faint shapes of letters strung together as unborn words, I ought to still have the freedom to decide what I want to write about; the moment I have, however, I will only be informed of how it is to be put down. Like a dog on a leash—neither loose nor tight—that accompanies its walker around the neighbourhood, through alleys and lanes, avenues and boulevards, all the while neither being lead nor being goaded, I must be turned to fill up the pages one after another knowing neither the futility of my will nor the successes of my endeavour. Does there exist such a magical manuscript that I may only discover it? Perhaps there does, from the moment I finish a sentence and sit back, pondering upon the text to follow—continuity of essence, enrichment of character, the like—the finished work flashes before my eyes, sculpted to perfection by a visceral sense that pierces together experience and desire, and I reach forward to touch the phantasm, aware full well of the disappointment that awaits as is due its illusory existence, and so pick the pen up once more, knowing what must definitely follow. Ha! Would that my mind was so pleasurably dual—nay!—and I suffer already the pains of Peter's theft, the vulgarity of Paul's profits...