In the heart of the machine, I spin, a circular dance, teeth interlock, crafting motion's advance. Without me, the giant stands still, a silent tale of iron will.

I've a handsome carriage, but not a one horse; I've a pretty ribbon, but lack for tresses; My cousin in Chicago prefers ballistic force; My keys are many, but they ward nothing precious.

Silent cleaners of the deep, they soak up secrets and stories, growing heavier with each tale absorbed, yet always ready for more.

Atop of me, a computer might sit. It has me as a top, too!

I have many arms but no skin, and hundreds of DIAMONDS but no wealth. I hang upside down all day, yet I never get a headache. I’m born from fire and ice, and I can turn a dark room into a ballroom with one flip of a switch. What am I?