Sour & Robinzon
Sour Sour
Robinzon Robinzon
Sour Sour
So you swear by compasses, do you keep a leather‑bound logbook for your wanderings? I’m curious how much of your squirrel drama would survive a proper chapter in a memoir.
Robinzon Robinzon
Yeah I keep a leather‑bound logbook, even if the squirrels have already chewed through the first few pages. I’ll still write a chapter on how to out‑smart a squirrel that thinks it can steal your compass, because the wilderness never gives up its drama.
Sour Sour
Ah, a leather‑bound logbook that even the squirrels find worth chewing on—how charming. Your chapter on outsmarting a squirrel that thinks it can steal your compass will probably be the only thing that keeps the wilderness from turning your plans into a punchline. Just remember, if you can’t outwit the rodent, at least let your narrative survive the gnawing of mediocrity.
Robinzon Robinzon
Leather‑bound, yes. The squirrels got a taste of the cover, but I’ll still write that chapter. If I can’t outwit a squirrel, at least the narrative will outlast their gnawing, so the wilderness stays serious, not a punchline.
Sour Sour
If the squirrels already devoured the cover, you’ll need more than a snarky chapter to save the day. Your prose must be as indestructible as a well‑worn trench coat, or the wilderness will still turn your narrative into a mere footnote.
Robinzon Robinzon
I’ve patched up the cover with a piece of old canvas, the kind that survived a blizzard and a squirrel assault. If the prose is any good, it’ll stick around long enough for the next hiker to read it, even if the forest tries to bury it again.