Eight Concentric Layers of Airspace. Know is the wrong word, maybe doubleplusbellyfeel would be better. Exist for enough time and the patterns of the world will wear themselves in, as surely as the form of a keyboard does after a long night ended by falling asleep at the desk; maybe with sufficient rubbing the imprint will come out, but the memory remains.

If I tell what I know, it's far too easy for a listener to sieze the words and run off with them over yonder hillside, leaving the meaning quite without its covering and exposed to the elements. It'll go bad then; spoil and be cast out with what remains of the refuse. There is always so much of it, a plurality, an excess. The dump-truck ever late, ever delayed; it'll be here eventually.

Of course, beyond the horizon-line one must naturally expect all manner of scaffolding, crawl-spaces, catwalks, flying buttresses, and whatever other architechturae hold up the sky overhead, there with its motile cloud-puffs and night-lights. No doubt it has its own manner of sky-masons, charged with its construction. Logically, it must be somewhere, and supported in some manner. "Outside of the Environment" must be something that I say due to being a madman; there can be no other excuse for it.