Depending on my size and my makeup, I might hold curtains or power nuclear reactors.

I’m public transportation for witches, and the reason dust never truly settles on the floor.

A canvas dance, a silent symphony, where colors speak louder than words, capturing the soul's whispers with a brushstroke.

I get hot, release steam people wait patiently for me to finish. What am I?

I stop arguments before they start by politely saying, your yard ends here.