It can't be seen, can't be felt, can't be heard and can't be smelt. It lies behind stars and under hills, and empty holes it fills. It comes first and follows after, ends life and kills laughter. What is it?
I am a fruit. If you had two of me, I would sound just the same. If you rearrange my letters, it could be a crime. Add me to a montage and I can become a different fruit. Remove my head and you can still listen; take away the end and I can still be eaten. Without a piece of the center, I am still a word; take away all
of the middle and I am just an acronym. What am I?