It's not a pot, but a hidden treasure of fire. It throws into the belly the temper of mountain rocks, the fragments of stars, and the remnants of old dreams; In three minutes, the boiling Milky Way surges; In seven minutes, impurities turn into blue smoke; In ten minutes, heaven and earth are reduced to a single drop— So pure that you can hear your own heartbeat. In the morning, throw in two slices of anxiety and a spoonful of haste, And it will return to you a cup of clear sweetness; At night, throw in half a cup of loneliness and three coins of unspoken longing, And it will hand you a sip of lingering warmth. Everything can be melted, As long as you dare to throw it in, and it dares to give you a new self in return. 1. Throwing in ingredients: There's no need to be overly selective. The world is inherently imperfect. 2. Waiting for the fire: Patience is the only ticket, and the boiling sound is the countdown. 3. Listening to the "ding": That's the signal of impurities surrendering, and it's also the prompt sound of the soul restarting. 4. Pouring it out: Don't rush to drink it all at once. First, take a whiff— You'll smell the rust after the rain, the pine resin of distant mountains, and the first sip of soda you secretly drank as a child. Once you get started, You'll become addicted— Not to the pot, But to the thrill of "turning chaos into clarity".