Alligator, suede, Rubber can wade, Soul-mates are made, To march on parade

I'm the throat of your household. Popular in December, ignored in May. My feet are on fire, my head is cold. I breath out ghosts, white and grey.

Pixels dance and hours vanish in the land of glowing glass, where stories unfold and eyes hold sway, but the clock silently judges.

I can either eat your cheese, or control a cursor as you please.

First four: respite, time in repose, Four more: place to be, space enclosed Stalls for a while, where everyone goes