I orbit a planet, often with friends. I race down a track, through thin copper bends. I’m certainly small, but mighty in number. Jump from doorknobs to hands, or to earth before thunder

I’m zeros and ones, I answer without feeling. I can make decent content, but not without stealing. I make six fingered hands, I’ll respond in a flash. I may be quite useful, but my riddles are trash.

Scales overlapped, Heart devoured. Friendly thistle, Not yet flowered.

I am very bitter, and not meant to ingest, but when roasted, milled, and mixed with sugar and milk, I make almost everyone obsessed.

I start liquidy. Mix me and I become goopy. Mix me again, and I become solid. Sometimes after, I can be stringy, or square, but I cannot be mixed again.