Al unísono
I took out one of the buds and placed it on a white piece of paper. Even the shadow that it cast under the army of halogen desk lamps looked like something from another dimension. The purple red and golden leaves (which were themselves tricked out with jagged punk rock edges) were coated with crystallized bits of what looked like thread encrusted with glittery pixie dust powder. I dug out a small clump from the bud to reveal more tiny threads—now they looked like wiring, like the inside of a gutted microphone. Everything about it was at once very different from other plants and yet still undeniably plant-like—from the dankness of its thick green aroma to the small stalks that looked like miniature pieces of broccoli. There were no seeds. You wouldn’t say it was dirt or mineral or flesh. It wasn’t fruit, synthetic or manmade in any way. And yet man had been an influence, a caretaker and a guide to it becoming an advanced version of itself.
