I can destroy cities or inspire poems.
I have no eyes, yet I touch everything.
You call me chaos,
But I always follow laws.
What am I?

I am not written, but I am read.
You didn’t choose me, but I chose you.
I can be twisted, edited, or flawed,
But I am the foundation of everything you are.
What am I?

Three friends check into a hotel room.
It costs $30, so they each pay $10.
Later, the hotel realizes the room should’ve only been $25.
The bellhop returns $5, but can’t split it evenly,
So he gives each friend $1 back and keeps $2.

Now each friend paid $9 (3×9 = 27), plus the $2 the bellhop kept = $29.
Where’s the missing dollar?

I hold you without hugging,
I lift you without arms.
I wait in silence for your weight.
What am I?

I have no mouth, yet I must be opened.
What’s inside me is not alive, but precious.
I guard silently until you crack me open.
What am I?

I fade when you chase me,
But return when you’re still.
I can make you smile or break you in silence.
I live in the past, but shape how you feel.
What am I?

I don’t speak, yet I pull.
I don’t move, yet I guide.
Without me, you would drift forever.
What am I?

A monk says: “I’ve written down a very large number — it’s 2 raised to the 57th power.
Without a calculator or looking it up, can you tell me what the last digit is?”

I slip through cracks, creep under doors, and walk where you stand.
You welcome me when it’s hot, and seal me out when it’s cold.
What am I?

You’ll only hear me if you stop listening.
I speak in silence and rest in noise.
What am I?