Dear Seattle,
You smell like weed.
Everywhere.
Every ten minutes.
It seems like no matter where you are, indoors or out, you run the risk of getting a contact high. I no longer partake, in fact it has been so long for me that I can remember when pot still had those acrid little seeds hiding inside the buds. Nevertheless, the constant whiff of competing strains of herb lifts me up every few minutes with waves of nostalgia that originate in a steamy haystack of memories piled blearily in my youth.
As a resident of a less green and more red land far from the shores of your fair and aromatic city I wanted to say-
Thank you.