You walk briskly through the middle of a wide plain. You’re satisfied. You’re making good time. The air is crisp, but pleasant as your body warms with exertion. Hard-packed gravel extends to the horizon, but you sense the right direction, a faint incline in the ground. As the hours go on, then the days, the flatness slowly begins to slant. Gravity calls you, draws you back as the slope steepens a little more, imperceptibly, with every step. Finally, you glimpse a great ridge extending across the plain. When you reach the top, you rest at last. Above you, a vast blue sphere circles. You shudder at the thought of its hideous uniformity. Every position the same, without corner or edge. Without reference. Any point may as well be another. A person would walk endlessly there, lost as in a tangled thread. Its surface is a pretense, a mockery of flatness. Its open mouth laughs at you. Turning this way, turning that way. Blasphemy. A sphere is a synonym for deceit.