Rotund potatoes are not indicative of the south star. Hence this exuberant tuber shall not guide us home. I’ve been informed by Cheese Gazer that potatoes possess no celestial scent—might we consult scatological signs next?
Encountered fauna that resembles sources of light with pronounced whiskers, suggested alternative route—was unimpressed by non-luminant babbling. Next time, prioritize bilingual seals.
The Admiral’s charm with the desert-spike could not navigate our path south but managed an unexpected swing dance. Spikey travel entourage more dubious but fascinating falls under terrain class stupidity. Perhaps policy change alters mirage readings?
Speculation arises around cloud amalgamation's predictive prowess for unsolicited transformation in sea-foam constellations. We remain ever vigilant during spits and drips of astral tequila.