I used to despise this kind of life, slow, rural. I wanted more. I wanted the noise, the pulse that the city could offer, so I left home. I stayed in the Overgrown for a couple of years.  I went to work at The Plug with Lando because I thought I should learn a thing or two before heading out into the real world. Lando taught me everything I know about growing, light, soil, patience. He taught me that nothing good comes easy, and nothing real comes fast. I owe that man everything. Without him, there would be no me.

Then I set my sights on the Sprawl. It seemed so exciting, like where I should be. But once I got there, I felt let down. Everyone’s moving, selling, faking.

I had heard tales of Yeti making it big out there, but he’s a different kind of dude. He makes the chaos work for him. I couldn’t. I won’t. So, I came back to the same country that I ran from.

I bought a piece of land not too far from where I grew up and christened it the Webbed Veil. Shortly after, I started making rosin. It’s my art and has become an obsession.

I sit with my animals at night, torch in hand, taking long dabs.  I think about new strains, new ways to push the plant further, better weed, more terps. Every breath, every puff, every press is a test: can I spin the next batch better than the last?

People try to find me. They ask for lessons, apprenticeships. Ten a year, at least. I turn them down. Not because I want to be alone, because they don’t deserve it. Pressing rosin isn’t about your equipment or brand. It’s about cutting away everything that isn’t the plant. It takes more than skill, it takes heart.

Most people don’t last in the Overgrown. Too slow for them. Too honest. But for me, the slow life I once hated is the only pace that ever told the truth.

And my rosin? It carries that truth. It tastes like the mountains, the crisp morning air pressed into gold, pure flavor that makes your mind sing and your body tingle. One hit and you’ll know, nothing else compares.

I don’t just live here. I’ve made it mine.

—Cold Spun