Mr. Gong lifts up one of the scrawny clones planted in a red plastic cup from the basket and takes in the aroma. Then, generating a one-hitter from the breast-pocket of his garden vest, he lights up and exhales, creating a large cloud of smoke. “Precious Mother. This Chronic is just amazing man.”
There was no fence, just a low rope in front of the building, a silent warning not to trespass. J started to make the draft while glancing at his notebook: a giant hand with the index and middle fingers raised and parted to make a V shape. The other three fingers were clenched. Underneath he stated, using capital letters: ONE HUMAN FAMILY.
Then came early spring. With Kelim rugs and antique wooden treasures balancing on the roof, the vehicle raced through the untouched nature, stopping occasionally for a refreshing dip in a mountain spring.