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There are solid wood tea trays and sand cups in the stacked display room. This is a cup of tea about time.

From raw to ripe, green to red. Cooking water with raw smoke, 80 degrees boiling water with one stroke, from high mountains to low rivers;

Melts away the lines, leaves traces of water, then calms down and returns to sweetness, like a reddish-brown moist stone.

The brick houses at the bottom of the mountain are full of cooking smoke, wandering in the atmosphere of the mountain city,
The dry tea and the red wall are stained with the color of time, and the pace of people coming and going has dried the tea leaves.
Tea bricks, wood, soil, and the city have been aged together for 100 to 50 years.
Fill the pot with water, the water column is slow, and the water turns clockwise from the edge of the cup to the center, listening to the song of water.

The song of the old mountain came from the wooden stack in the distance, the color of the tea was yellow and red, and the taste of the tea was astringent and sweet.

The leaves are picked when letters are still needed. Turn back time.


Puer is ripe time. 

From raw to ripe, green to carmine. In an old room served tea in purple boccaro clay on a wooden tray, at 80 degrees.

Boiled water streams a crimson river from an altitude and settles a lake in the cup.


Tea and walls fermented and tinted by the years, aged red and brown.

The air travels through houses and highlands, and takes nostalgia back between the compressed leaves. Traces of people moving and leaving, become a wind that dries the tea. Then it rains.

The color diffuses and unifies again in red,

the water that runs through it becomes denser in time.


Brew and pour the aged water anti-clockwise, breathe the moment, reverse time.

Remember when the tea was new, when we still wrote letters,

When it tasted fresh, bitter and left a sweet aftertaste.

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