I have a throat but I cannot speak, you feed me as I get weak. My fever rises as the day gets bleak, you are by my side, you dusty little freak.

Where your car can be stored, and what your car may travel on

I was the magic in your small hand, The hero of your make-believe land. I woke when you dreamed and flew when you ran, The very first friend where your story began.

Attached to a clock, it tolls for the time. Attached to a church, it rings for the dead. In a coffin, you make this ring with a strong hope someone is listening. What is this four-letter word that you hope does not toll for you?

You get them when you create well. You give them when someone else creates well. In science fiction stories they are often what you spend. Someone who steals a singular one is no friend.