Answer:
Words come out of it, aligned in perfect silence. A messenger of black on white, a slinky fellow drawing lines, of thin and soft graphite
They made me a mouth, but didn't give me breath. Water gives me life, but the sun brings me death.
What can point in every direction but can't reach the destination by itself
My neighbor makes mistakes. I get rid of them. Who am I?
What comes once in a minute, twice in a moment, but never in an hour?
What do you purposefully put lots of in and on your body, but run away from when you encounter it outside?