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

It was supposed to be a regular drop.

Darius had spent the morning moving through alleys and side streets, slipping joints into the hands of regulars like a silent ritual. No eye contact. No extra words. Just gas and respect.

By sunset, he was down to the last few packs of Bridge Burner, so he dipped behind the busted dollar store near Clarkson. The place was half-demolished, fenced off with caution tape and rust. But tucked behind a pile of broken pallets and bent shopping carts, hidden beneath a heavy slab of corrugated metal, was his garden.

Glowing green like neon dreams under a jerry-rigged solar light.

Thick colas. Dense buds. Crystals so bright they sparkled like snow under the glow.

He crouched, reached for a lower branch—and froze.

Standing in the narrow path between broken concrete and chain-link.

Hood up. Sketchbook in her arm. Eyes wide.

Darius straightened slowly, heart pounding harder than he expected.

"I followed you," she admitted, stepping closer. "You've been disappearing after drops. Same time. Same place. I got curious."

"You followed me?" he snapped, louder than intended.

"Yeah. And now I know why your weed's different. You grow it yourself—here?"

He just stepped in front of the plants like his body could protect them.

"You weren't supposed to see this."

"Why not?" she asked, softer now. "You think I'd snitch?"

"I don't know what you'd do," he muttered. "I don't know who you really are."

She crossed her arms. "I've been buying from you for weeks. Sketching you. Bringing you food. Talking to you like you're a real person. You seriously think I'd sell you out?"

Because trust wasn't something he gave freely. Not in this life. Especially not in the last one.

But still… she'd followed him. And now she was here. And she was looking at his plants like they were art, not evidence.

She slowly moved past him, crouching beside one of the stalks.

"These are beautiful," she whispered. "Strong. Alive. Like they got a story."

"They do," Darius said quietly. "Same as me."

For a long moment, they just stood there, the silence filled with the soft hum of the grow light and the distant buzz of city life beyond the fence.

"You could do more with this, D," Maya said, standing up. "Not just sell joints in baggies. You could turn this into a brand. A name people remember."

"I'm not trying to be remembered," he said, eyes on the soil. "I'm just trying to grow and survive."

"Maybe those aren't separate things."

Later that night, back in the motel, Darius stared at the sketch she left him—a drawing of one of his plants, but with roots that wrapped around a crown.

And for the first time, he wondered if maybe—maybe—he didn't have to do this all alone.

Chapter Six – Roots Exposed