Answer:
I am a room that has a roof but no walls. What am I?
I have a name written on me, but it isnβt my name. Men plant me, but I never grow. They look at me and see their future, rotting in my bloom.
In all the world none can compare I am a tiny weaver my deadly cloth so silky and fair.
What belongs to you but others use it more than you do?
I am black, white, and read all over. What am I?
No matter how little or how much you use me, you change me every month.