As a tool, I am not touched, yet as a rule, I am often held. To those who are quick-witted, I am a weapon, wielded well. With care, I can heal a heart, yet be used for lie or lore. While soft, I can cut deeply; one slip, and I'll start a war.

Paper becomes crane A short trip across a long space-time plane Giving up the poker game

I exist in a street, but I do not get used for cars. You might see me in the steps you take to cross the street.

A touch, a swat, a passing glance, to pat at dust upon your pants. An action made quite idly, with no regard for much U see A tool for moving colored tints, or fixing locks upset by wind. A dry or nappy piece of wood, found aside not used for good

I am shaped by needles, but I do not hurt. People often dress me.