I hum in quiet places where nothing is seen, I twist and I turn in the spaces between. I stretch, I vibrate, I hide out of sight, Too small to catch, too strange to explain right. Call me fake, and some physicists might get mad! I am the magic strum.

I am always here, silently bearing your weight, A place where you might beckon to your soulmate. I hold space for your dreams when the night feels kind, Or cradle your worries when they crowd your mind. Dress me in cotton or strip me bare, I won’t protest, Name me, and you’ll finally get some rest.

I have many uses, dear riddler; You can use me to describe a form, or the physical characteristics of man or beast. I am both the art of laying foundations, the act of creation, as well as the thing itself. You can start me from nothing or expand on what already exists, brick by brick. The type of brick is moot, as I can be as colorful as you desire, simply beware the caltrops.

I rise from desert sands, Older than most lands. Wide at my feet, Pointed at the sky. Built for kings who never die. What am I?

Round, brown, hard-shelled seed, A squirrel's autumn treasure, Sweet treat in the shell.