The hardest decisions I make every day usually revolve around seeing a piece of broken studio equipment on Craigslist and deciding whether or not it’s worth buying, fixing, then re-selling.
That is probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever written.
The ancient Bongripper awakens and dusts off his drums of doom with the bones of the righteous. The hashishians gather around the dopethrone. Ambushed by the tribal green-routes to enforce a trade embongo on the tiny Sativians. The Chief looks to the smoky skies, towards the Weedium Sabbathi. He retreats into his haze-den. “I need to consult the haze,” he coughs. “Never stop,” the haze replies. “Come relentlessly like the first cough of the morning.”
Princess Bambalacha scrapes the resin from her eyes as she bathes in the green ganja rays of the sun. Blazing slaves bundle bales of butter flowers for burnt offerings. You are all but pawns in an ancient game of canni-chess. Chibasassins proceed the Weedians plans across high dirt grass plains.
Heavier than herds of Eden’s pachyderms, onward caravans mistakenly unearth colossal slabs of hashstone. Massive hashstone structures reveal ancient riff architecture that dying Weedians hummed together in hazy concupiscent drones.