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

Maya came through the next day with a worn laptop and an iced coffee she claimed was essential to "paperwork mode."

They posted up in the motel room, the AC rattling weakly as the sun bled through the yellowing curtains. Darius rolled while she typed, the rhythm of her keystrokes syncing with the flick of his grinder.

"Alright," Maya said, pushing her braids behind one ear. "So the application for CAURD is open. You meet the qualifications—prior conviction, justice-involved. We just need your info and… proof."

Darius stared at her over the cherry of the joint.

"Court docs. Mugshot. Old charges. Something that shows you were impacted."

"That was… another life. Literally."

"You never told me what happened to you before."

"Ain't much to say. I hustled. Got caught. Thought I was gonna flip my life after I got out."He exhaled smoke slowly. "Next thing I know, I wake up in this body. Under a bridge. Eighteen again. A second shot."

She didn't laugh. Didn't call him crazy.

She just whispered, "That sounds like destiny."

Maya filled in the forms. Helped him set up an email. Showed him how to apply for an EIN—"It's like a social security number for your business," she explained, like she'd been prepping for this moment her whole life.

From the Dirt: The Vision

Premium joints and small-batch flower

Drop-based, limited packs per week

Long-term plan: storefront, art collabs, grow-your-own kits

"You ever think about naming a strain after yourself?" she asked, halfway through sketching a concept for the packaging.

"Nah," Darius said. "This ain't about me. It's about the message."

"Then name one after the message," she said, handing him a page.

It was a rough label sketch:FROM THE DIRT – VOLUME 1"Bridge Burner"Underneath:Cultivated by survivors. Smoked by believers.

That night, as Maya left with the laptop to submit everything officially, Darius sat alone.

He stared at his phone—new burner, no contacts except her—and thought about what it would feel like to walk into a real dispensary with his name on the jar. His roots on the walls. His vision on the shelves.

Three taps. Pause. Two taps.

From the old block.The OG he hadn't seen in weeks.The one who used to move his product before he ghosted him to go solo.

Tone's eyes flicked over the motel, the weed jars on the counter, the cash pile folded under the TV.

"You movin' heavy now, huh?" Tone said, voice calm but sharp."Heard of this little brand you pushin'. From the Dirt, right?"

He smiled—but there was no warmth in it.

Chapter Eight – Smoke & Signatures