Diogenes carried me without owning me. Zeno could never finish crossing me. Borges filled me with libraries, yet left me unexplored. Empires claimed me, cartographers scarred me. I am measured but never held, occupied yet never grasped, divided but never cut. Every kingdom begins with me, and every grave receives me. What am I?

I can have holes, but I'm no sponge I can have armor, but I'm no knight I'm where you're scheduled to be buried If you've lost me, you don't know what you're doing

I’m less than mountains, more than the plains, a gentle rise through grass or rain.

I have a heartbeat made of traffic, a voice made up of countless tongues. Though built of stone, glass, and steel, I seem alive to everyone.

The Windy City, The Greatest, or the Land Down Under Start with a muted cry, then half a diam. Next, something mathematicians imagine, followed by the last four of a bunch of flowers.