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.

Fixation or dwelling? Both are compelling! Hips mustn't lie, Just go where they're telling

I grow by subtraction, sharpen when challenged, and vanish when assumed. I cannot be stored, only exercised. Measured constantly, yet never directly seen. What am I?

I build my kingdom while you rest, weaving tales beyond the light, a realm where colours cry and mountains fly. I have no weight, but hold you fast, Until the morning light is cast. I am the film that fades away, Yet leaves you thinking all the day.

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?