Indifference?

The silhouette of my fingertips has changed.
Lacking in finality of shape.
Did you give that to me? Or do I give you too much credit?
I can't write now. I hear the "click, click" of the typewriter, and see how effortlessly thoughts can breed independent syllables. Or can they even breed their own ink, black and thick?
Thoughts seem disabled today, though. Fuck! Maybe they've experimented with that god damn heroin again? Or maybe they just dreamt it.
Being constantly restless doesn't help with definition and having no one to take my mind off it doesn't help much either.
I should figure out why I hate you, cuz I do. And I guess there are people out there who hate me too.
I want you in my lungs still, or what if I sweat you out of my pours? That's what it feels like!
Exactly.
Like you're pushing through me, penetrating, my skin tries to keep you in. I wish you wanted to stay there.
I smell like alcohol again.
Who are we kidding thinking we could be Buddhist?
"Click, click"
Who knew you could delete mistakes? Maybe that typewriter is smarter than I am.