I have a roof to keep you dry and a floor to keep you high, but I have no walls to block the breeze or doors to lock with keys. I sit in the park or a garden fair, inviting you to take the air.

Damsel in distress? ... --- ... Souls to save? ... --- ... This is the code for survival

I’m where the blade begins its bite, Where mountains taper into height. I’m also words that quietly slip, A hidden hint upon the lip. What am I?

You can sit on me, and ironically, I am a discrete word for what comes out of the part of your body with which you sit on me.

Portable minds that whisper with keys, their screens are windows to the world, connecting thoughts with a touch, they rest on your knees and travel with ease.