I require a house that you build in minutes and pack into a bag. I offer a ceiling with a billion lights, but no switches to turn them off. I bring you closer to streams, trees, and wildlife, yet my name ends with an -ing. What am I?

OH NO, I DROPPED MY TUBE OF TOOTHPASTE, Tom said, ...

I may pour your drink, throw heat from the mound, or lure unwary insects where green traps are found.

Gliding through a city's veins, a cradle on still waters; it carries dreams beneath bridges and songs of serenades.

Woven tales of color and thread, what we wear, where we dream, a canvas for all stories, a shelter and a scheme.