Are your fullstops salted?
Your colons – are they seasoned nuts? Can I snack upon your paragraphs, eat your poems for lunch? Are your nuggets wholesome? Does one drink the aroma of your epigrams before crunching them like the startled meat of coconuts? Do your arguments quench thirst? Are your rhetoric questions marinated like suya? Do your dramatic dialogues drip soursop? Can I breakfast on your metaphors, can we chew upon your innuendos – and not be purged?
Are your tales steamed and salted ube? Will I lick my fingers afterwards?
Are your books long and winding buffets laden with sumptuous fare? If I were marooned on a desert island with nothing to eat but you, made food, will I thrive?
Or are you poisonous?
Your Wary Reader.