I’m always right, you know it’s true, as close as one comes to being a deity. No arguments lost, no words misspoken, just take my word, and all will be okay.

Boss makes a dollar, I make a this. That's why I poop, on company time!

I glide on winter’s silver skin, yet also haunt the ocean floor. One self is steel that sings on ice, the other spreads its wings to soar.

Through shadowed paths where echoes lurk, a corridor's magic at the work. Between realms both near and far, guiding steps like a guiding star.

I whip things fast within a bowl, turning parts into a whole. With loops of wire, I spin and twist, what tool am I within the mix?