We’ve seen hops like you people wouldn’t believe. Bales, freshly dried, on fire outside of the Yakima fields. We’ve watched cones on the bine glitter with resinous lupulin. All of these moments will be lost in time. Like…. well, you get it. Time to drink.

Hazy, impermeant and expressive of all the temporally bound meaninglessness we can muster, expect melted orange creamsicle and crushed blueberries.