XenoKnowsALL

Born with nothing but hunger and hurt, a 40-year-old soul is reborn in the body of a homeless Brooklyn stoner—and gifted with the divine ability to grow perfect cannabis in seven days. But instead of chasing hype, he builds a sacred legacy from the dirt: weed with intention, healing with fire, and culture with care.

Alongside Maya, a visionary artist, they transform their struggle into a global movement—From the Dirt—expanding across dispensaries, fashion, food, education, and spiritual growth.

From rooftops to rituals, from corner stores to cathedrals, this is a story of grief, glory, grind, and grace.

Because some things aren’t grown.
They’re remembered.

From the Dirt: Bloom Anyway

The last thing Marcus Hall remembered was the sound of "Young, Wild & Free" blasting on his old speakers, a rolled blunt between his fingers, and the sudden screech of tires before everything went black.

Now, he was cold. Cold and... light?

Pigeons arguing over crumbs nearby.

He sat up fast—too fast. His body felt off. Limber. No joint pain, no gut hang, no stiff neck. Hell, even his vision was clearer. He looked down at his hands. They were smooth. Young. Scar-free.

He scrambled to his feet and caught a reflection in a cracked car window. Gone was his old, scruffy, 40-year-old self. In his place was a wiry 18-year-old kid with messy dreads, sleepy eyes, and a hoodie with a weed leaf patch sewn on the sleeve.

"Yo… what in the reincarnation is this?"

As he stumbled toward the nearest underpass, trying to make sense of it all, a hazy green glow shimmered in the corner of his vision. A voice, warm and smoky, like it came from a thousand blunts, spoke directly into his mind:

"You have been chosen by the Stoner Gods. Go forth and grow."

Marcus—now in this new body—stood still for a long minute.

"Stoner Gods? Man… I must've hit that blunt too hard," he muttered.

By the end of the day, he learned three things:

He was now Darius Young—a known homeless stoner kid who slept under the Q train bridge near Church Ave.

He had no phone, no ID, no money, no people.

There was a crumpled pack of sour diesel seeds and a busted grow light in the bottom of his ripped backpack.

That night, curled up under a torn sleeping bag behind a shuttered bodega, he stared at the seeds in his palm. Something about them felt... warm. Alive. He pressed them to the dirt in a nearby trash-filled lot, more out of boredom than belief.

He woke up the next morning to find the seedlings had sprouted. Not just little green pokes—they were already six inches tall and strong. That wasn't normal.

By the end of the week, there were full, bushy, crystal-coated plants blooming in the busted soil. He clipped a nug, dried it fast using a pan over a fire barrel, and took the first hit.

And when an older head from the block asked to try it and coughed himself into a vision, he offered Marcus $50 for the rest of the joint.

And in Brooklyn—where hustle was religion and survival was an art—this was more than a blessing.

"They took everything from me in my last life...This time?I'm building an empire from the dirt up."

Chapter One – Reborn Under the Bridge