I am the chisel that reveals the statue by taking away. I am the silence that gives the note its purpose. My presence defines all that is here, yet I am not here at all. If you were to name me, you would have to speak of what is not.

I am a silent order, a secret in a square, No twin may wander, yet all must be there.

My rhythm is a mystery, many have tried to decipher, but my identity is known only by me and one other. The opposite of artificial, part of the whole. All hidden in plain sight, except for one.

You rush ahead, I steal mid-run, a sideways snack and then you’re done.

You walk into a room and see a bed. On the bed, there are two dogs, five cats, a giraffe, seven cows, and a goose. There are also three doves flying above the bed. How many legs are on the floor?