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 motel was starting to feel too small.

The air was stale. The walls were thin. Every knock made Darius flinch. Every creak made him check the door.

If he was serious about going legit—about protecting what he was building—he needed a real home for his plants. A sanctuary. Something that couldn't be shut down with a cheap lock and a quick bust.

An old laundromat on Rogers Avenue—shuttered for years, boarded up, with a leaky roof and a cracked tile floor. But beneath the dust and broken glass? Potential.

The back room was huge. Dark. Sealed off from the street. No windows. Thick walls.

"Landlord thinks we're gonna turn it into an art studio," Maya said, smirking as they stepped through the space with flashlights.

"Ain't a lie," Darius muttered. "Growing is an art."

They stood in silence, imagining what it could be. Lights hanging from the ceiling. Rows of fat green. Packaged jars on stainless steel shelves. The dream. The future.

That night, back at the motel, Darius pulled out a small, cloth pouch he hadn't opened in weeks.

It was given to him by an old Rasta in the Bronx who ran a holistic shop that sold incense, roots, and whispers of magic. The man had taken one look at Darius and said:

"You got soil in your soul, youth. Take these. But don't plant 'em 'til you ready."

Inside were six seeds—smaller than his pinky nail, but warm in a way no seed had any right to be.

A legendary sativa. Sweet, earthy, and sharp as truth. The kind of strain that kept your feet moving and your mind clear. The kind that built empires.

"Next drop," Darius whispered, rolling the pouch between his palms. "We call it Empire Poison."

Later, after they'd signed the lease under Maya's cousin's name and cleared out the broken machines, they sat on the laundromat floor with a blanket and a cheap speaker playing Sade.

Maya leaned against Darius, her head resting on his shoulder.

"You ever scared?" she asked softly. "That this could all fall apart?"

"Me too," she whispered. "But… I've never been this close to something real before."

She sat up slightly, looking at him.

"All my life I've drawn dreams. Painted things I wanted but didn't have. But this?" She gestured to the space around them. "This is the first time I get to build something."

Darius looked at her—really looked.

For a long time, he'd felt like he didn't belong. Like this life wasn't his. Like he was borrowing time from someone who was supposed to be here instead.

With the dream growing from the dirt?

He felt planted. Rooted. Real.

"You're part of this," he said quietly.

"I know," she whispered, barely audible.

Then she leaned in and kissed him—slow, gentle, like a promise.

The next morning, he stood in the back room of the laundromat, a new grow tent set up, fresh soil in crates, lights ready to hum.

He held one Durban Poison seed between his fingers.

"Let's build something legendary."

Chapter Ten – New Soil