About Us
Now every time I see a packet labeled Jack Herer seeds, there's this lurch—like meeting an old friend in an airport. Unexpected but oddly comforting, maybe sideways fate is playing DJ. Even if I’ve got no room, no plan, still that flicker of temptation. They tug at some impulsive part of me that wants to grow wild again. Dirt under my fingernails, resin on my fingers, nights spent talking to leaves like an idiot monk. I don’t trust many brands, don’t chant about strains like a fanboy, but here? I’ll whisper it: they’re damn close to sacred.