So many types of me to choose from, you may get choice paralysis. Whichever you pick our smell is quite gruesome, and good luck pooping without butt dialysis.

I sleep inside unfinished dreams, pressed between the printed scenes. No voice, no ink, yet still I guide, what am I that waits inside?

Hold me close, don’t break the seal, a cold wind here can be a big deal. I wrap you tight, keep warmth concealed, without me on, the chill outside is revealed.

I have keys but no locks, space but no room. You can enter, but you can’t go outside. I help you write and work every day. What am I?

Two or four step on the court, Chasing points in this fast sport. Over the net, the battle goes, With rackets swinging to and fro. What is it?