Wild Puerh#

My small Yixing whispers, the gongbei laughs—two breaths of boiling water, and only then does it brim with sunrise.I carry the amber to my desk, where code flickers like restless ghosts. One sip and the room stills. 2018 early spring, wild trees older than memory.

The liquor is molten gold.

It enters without sound—cool mountain air—then unfurls into honeyed thunder. A rock-sugar echo rolls down the throat and refuses to leave, like a temple bell long after the rope is dropped. These ancient leaves drank centuries of mist and moonlight, hoarded the quiet qi of heaven and earth, and now return it, drop by generous drop. In this small cup, time forgets to hurry.

In this small cup, I remember I am not the coder—only the guest. Good tea is never drunk alone.

Wherever you are, tea friend, the kettle is warm and the mat is empty.

Come. The mountains are still speaking ~