Keiko & Limer
Limer
Keiko, what if we brewed a tea that changes flavor as the sun moves, and you could annotate each change in your weathered journal—could we turn that into a living chronicle of the day?
Keiko
That sounds like a living poem. I could record each subtle shift in the tea, like a diary of the sun’s path, and later trace how the flavors mirror the day’s rhythm. It would be a quiet archive, a reminder that even tea can be a moving record. Just make sure we keep the secret recipe safe, or the chronicle becomes a whisper.
Limer
I love that idea—tea as a diary, secret pages steaming in sunlight. Just keep the recipe under your fingernail, like a tiny, guarded heartbeat.
Keiko
I’ll tuck the recipe into my fingernail, small as a heartbeat, while each sip becomes a line in my weathered journal, a living record of the day. Just remember, the tea might outwit me if I get too curious.
Limer
Sounds like a perfect little rebellion—keeping the recipe in your nail and letting the tea write its own story. Just don’t let the tea outwit you; maybe it’ll start asking for tea leaves, too.
Keiko
I’ll guard it with a quiet nail, and if the tea starts asking for leaves I’ll write a footnote, like an old poet’s sigh, about the day’s own appetite.