Letting them slip into the mist feels like a sigh against cold skin. There’s a wet, trembling sweetness in that final release, a perfume of rot and rain that lingers on the air, haunting and holy.

Last year’s bud is last year’s bud, those are the rules! 🙈 It just never got trimmed and sat around collecting dust, though we did make some fire bubble hash with some of it… there’s only so much you can do with it. I’m getting old, 16 year old me would be in disbelief 😆