If you're in the middle of cooking dinner, and your can opener all of a sudden stops working. Then you might be tempted to mockingly refer to it as this.

I’m reached by a ladder, a hatch, or a stair - a kingdom of cobwebs and forgotten air. I cradle old stories, in dust and in light. A collection of boxes hid away out of sight.

I have a roof to keep you dry and a floor to keep you high, but I have no walls to block the breeze or doors to lock with keys. I sit in the park or a garden fair, inviting you to take the air.

I’m where the blade begins its bite, Where mountains taper into height. I’m also words that quietly slip, A hidden hint upon the lip. What am I?

You can sit on me, and ironically, I am a discrete word for what comes out of the part of your body with which you sit on me.