A trusty friend by the bedside, With pages that hold dreams and thoughts inside. A place where pen and paper gently meet, For scribbles and stories, it's a cozy seat.

I'm a lever that guides, but has no say. I bring virtual worlds to play. What am I?

I’m painted on walls, not on paper you know, I’m old and I’m dry, but my colors still glow. I show saints or stories from long, long ago. What kind of painting am I? Do you know?

Inside my frame, taut strings lie still, until small hammers do their will. My black and white are not of a beast, yet under deft fingers, songs are released.

It may be done to your vision. You may store important and not so important stuff there. You may see one if you look up.