I am caressing the idea of a kernel.
Un noyau.
A small pebble, the size of a black olive that one carries around in one's mouth, a little above the throat.
An immutable truth of existence epitomized by one cold hard object, smooth and self-contained like a small pocket knife.
I often look for people carrying the kernel.
Sometimes I go as far as forcing my fingers down their throat,
but most of the time, I find nothing else than yellow clots of mucus, or partially digested grapefruits.
Once two kernels meet, their collision would bring about the end of the world as we know it.
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