Clean, refresh, and wear anew. A weekly task that one must do. More, or less, depending beds, Sweet smells pulled over heads.

I touch the earth and I touch the sky, but if I touch you, you’ll likely die. What am I?

I am thin and flat. People put messages inside me. I travel from one home to another. What am I?

Stretched tight before my life begins, then touched by colour, brush, and whim. I never move, yet worlds I hold, in silence stories through me are often told.

I can be part of your foot, yet I never wear a shoe. I stand above a grand doorway, yet I cannot see the view. I am the chief of villains, but I do no crime myself. I am a sneaky prefix sitting on a grammar shelf. What am I?