The time before the blunt is a quiet, calm period.  We all sit in a circle and watch in hushed awe as the roller works silently.  He is drawn in, focused intensely on the task at hand, ignoring all the distractions around him.  His tan fingers work like clockwork, picking out the seeds and evenly distributing the weed.  Around him, the room is noiseless, all thoughts going unvoiced, the occasional giggle or sly comment slipping in through the haze.

Normally, twelve kids could not fit in such a small room, but Aristotle's perfect sphere has allowed us to pack peacefully.  We are an orchestra, preparing for our greatest symphony; each with our own music sheet and melody of notes.  We sit in silence, our eyes all analyzing the masterpiece being sculpted by the roller's hands.  His scrawny, scabbed arms lift the creation to his mouth and a thick, pink tongue glides smoothly across the paper.  He licks it up, and down, perfecting the baton to a magnificent sculpture before lifting it above his head.  A hush sweeps across the room. 

It's go time.

The conductor slowly lifts the joint to his mouth, his cracked, chapped lips pursing slightly, like a mother kissing her soft, blunt-shaped baby.  To this the entire orchestra perks to attention.  Everyone is done tuning up and ready now to play the world's greatest sonata.  His flicks the lighter and the flame dances around the smoky room.  Carefully, he puts the flame to the end of the paper and inhales slowly.  Silent amazement sweeps the room as everyone readies themselves for beautiful memories.

Guy blowing a pot smoke ring
"Who wants to claim this halo and join me in heaven?"
The blunt goes around the room with breathtaking elegance.  Puff, puff, pass; puff, puff, pass; like an Olympic track team flawlessly relaying the baton to the next runner.  It goes around the room twice, everyone coughing and having their time to shine with smoke tricks.  One kid does the French waterfall; another ghosts.  Everyone applauds smoke rings as the stadium grows cloudier.  Normally there would be a rain delay.  Instead, athletes play on.

While each person waits for their opportunity to rise, their minds begin to take them to inner sections of their consciousness they never knew existed.  Each runner, caught in his own elation of seventh heaven, is remarkably content with his life.  The room is silent, the only sound coming from the soft music in the background and the occasional snicker escaping one's tightened lips.  One laugh triggers many, as if the wave in the stadium has taken full effect, circling the arena and causing the euphoria to climax.

And then, as quickly as it started, the race is over.  Our team has won.  The only thing left is a fish-bowled basement and a bunch of breathless athletes, all in their own thoughts of ecstasy.

Sitting here, in a room full of strangers, everyone seems at peace.  Tranquility rules the room, and everyone bows to its powerful force.  Silence.  But not just any silence, the type of stillness that is never broken or challenged.  An accepted calm that unites track runners, orchestra musicians, or just plain old stoners.  It's the silence after the blunt, and it's beautiful.

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