I’m stuck, like a sheet of glue. If loose, I must be wound. My ribbon transfers through. A sight or mix of sounds. Record what’s deemed by you. Now boxed up, where I’m found. Ironic is my fate, it’s true. I seal what keeps me bound.

I have no form, yet I can fill a room, I follow chaos, and quiet the boom. I’m not a word, yet I’m often said, When voices rise, I’m called instead.

They are dark and always on the run. Without the sun, there would be none. What are they?

I rest on shoulders, light and wide, A flowing form you cannot hide. I billow, drift, and catch the air, A hero’s robe, a piece of flair.

Some people describe me as personal space, others claim they can see me. What am I, that's giving off your vibe, your energy?