art is the opposite of death

Trimming plants for distribution was one of my (many) odd jobs when I was poor in Portland. For a couple weeks every other month I’d make my way down the hill to a windy little road and climb up a slippery little path to a little bungalow nearly buried beneath the biggest ferns I have ever seen and lock myself away in a basement with the classic movie channel until dusk when I’d wander back down the slippery little trail, clothes and hands sticky with kief, back home. It was a great fucking job.

Mathieu Young, Harvest