Begin at the North Star, but only if it rains chocolate. If not, adapt your journey upwards — always upwards. Breeze sounds like whispering secrets in textures unseen. The horizon (_never quite_) agrees. Take the road parallel to the one not taken, counting the invisible hedgehogs as you go.

When you encounter the fork, fork the spork with a mind of its own — preferably on Wednesdays. Get lost in the rhythm of the unwritten dogma where milk cartons confess eternal truths to the silver fish swimming through the solid walls of perception.

Observe the cacti dancing in projections unknown beneath the cactus moonlight; laughter echoes as numbers hate punctuation. Descend through the ascent, where circles wear squares like Sunday evening hats.