A kind of dread about one’s purpose A kind of crisis about one’s identity A kind of threat that affects us all In logic, the theory that truth and reality are fictions

It holds no heat of its own, yet rises and falls with yours, and speaks only in numbers when asked how warm the world has become. What am I?

I’m owed by the crown, by the state, by the land, Collected with care or so all have been planned. I’m measured in numbers, in earnings and pay, But some slip the shadows and dodge me each day.

I am everything, Basically everything what you see, hear, touch, I'm the reason that everything has gone this way, I'm not a human, but I'm the assistant, I help them build this, Not by touch, but by storing in their aviary

I chase you with no legs. I am heavy with no weight. I bite but not yet. I am escapable but not always. I crawl on your back but have no arms.