A girl says this to her best friend: “I was born in 1955, and I celebrated my 17th birthday last weekend.†Her best friend thinks she’s lying, but she’s actually correct. How is that possible?
What does man love more than life, hate more than death or mortal strife; That which contented men desire; the poor have, the rich require; the miser spends, the spendthrift saves, and all men carry to their graves?
It can't be seen, can't be felt, can't be heard, and can't be smelt.
It lies behind stars and under hills, And empty holes it fills.
It comes first and follows after, Ends life, and kills laughter.
What is it?