The good stuff can be hard to find, Soft, yet strong by design. I vanish with sorrow, sickness, or glee, Pulled from a box, used urgently. I crumble under pressure, yet serve my role - Please wash your hands when you're done.

My name means 'fresh' in Italian, but I am often centuries old. I am not painted on the wall; I become the wall itself as the plaster dries. What am I?

inhuman builders, artists with wings thousands and thousands of tiny little things i am their walls, their floors and their ceilings if you can harvest me, it's a humble way to make a living

I am a tower built of layers, held between two matching walls. I’m the hero of the lunchbox, but I fall apart if you lose your grip.

Golden soldiers in rows so neat, waving in fields under the sun's heat. In harvest time, they make a treat, from summer's warmth, we eat their sweet.