I never grow old and I never decay, I was even found where the pharaohs once lay. A term of endearment your sweetheart might say, made by small gatherers that work hard all day. I'm stored in waxy hexagons, perfectly aligned, a geometric treasure that’s one of a kind.

I leave marks when pushed too far, whether in life or from a car. Smoke or stress, I’m born from strain, too much pressure leaves my stain.

I hold life saving liquid for when you are traveling long distances. I can also be a kitchen in which soldiers eat

You may click on me thinking I'm one thing, and be frustrated when you see me loading. But I'm never gonna give up this prank.

The wall's oracle, it whispers the rhythm of days, months, and years, marking time's silent march with squares and numerals.