Answer:
I cannot be felt, seen or touched. Yet I can be found in everybody. My existence is always in debate. Yet I have my own style of music.
You can spin, wheel and twist. But this thing can turn without moving.
A hill full, a hole full; yet you cannot catch a bowl full. What is it?
What turns from red to black as soon as it touches water?
What is it that you must give before you can keep it.
What did the piece of wood say when he saw the screwdriver and screws approaching?