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, and left a sweet aftertaste.
