Answer:
Words come out of it, aligned in perfect silence. A messenger of black on white, a slinky fellow drawing lines, of thin and soft graphite
You’ll find me in a soup, in a burger, in a pizza, I am green when raw and red when ripened and ready to become a condiment.
These are great, floaty fun until they explode and give you a little scare.
They live only in stories, taller than three storeys.
I am green and ugly and come out at night with a crumple old broom. Who am I?
Born in the ocean and white as snow. When I fall back to water I disappear without a trace.