Tim is left-handed.

Tim is a lefty.

Source: Tatoeba

James searched online.

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James was caught in a shower.

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Do you know the Heimlich maneuver?

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Tim is Tom's twin brother.

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Tom wanted everyone to think he'd died.

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Sam joined the army when he was eighteen.

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I can't understand how Tom could know.

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Tim's motorbike is far more expensive than mine is.

Source: Tatoeba

I can't find Tim. Has he gone already?

Source: Tatoeba

Graham Greene is my favorite author.

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Karim is my chosen Muslim name.

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Graham Greene is a favorite author of mine.

Source: Tatoeba

"I'd look like a real James Bond in that," Dima said to himself, then entered the store.

Source: Tatoeba

In family photos, Ciham appears carefree. She poses casually for the camera, her hair pulled into a braided ponytail.

Source: Tatoeba

Seven months ago, chefs from a Lebanese social enterprise named Souk el Tayeb began teaching the women new cooking skills, including such traditional dishes as samke harra — fish stuffed with pine nuts, coriander and chili sauce — and ma'amoul cookies.

Source: Tatoeba

"I think that Tim Hortons café and Starbucks café should have blueberry iced tea on their menu." "That's a refreshing idea! A blueberry iced tea would fit perfectly with the trend of fruit-infused teas that balance sweetness with a bit of tartness. Tim Hortons already has a strong iced tea base they could use, while Starbucks could easily fold it into their lineup of shaken iced teas and refreshers."

Source: Tatoeba

It's a sunny 3rd of July of 2025. On the 7th will be the Star Festival—Tanabata—in Japan. This morning, here on Lulu Island, I strolled to Tim Hortons café twice—Iced Coffee with oat milk, then Strawberry Watermelon Sparkling Quencher with a Sausage Farmer's Wrap. I went to the "Clam Temple." On the way, I glanced at the charming bamboo grove. An old man had dug holes beside it to put compost—eaten mangoes and cherries. At the café, I spoke to Greg, the white man who eventually wants to own a B&B in Kushiro, Hokkaido, with his Japanese wife. The native Ainu and marshes are attractions there. Today, head-shaven Greg is wearing a beige T-shirt and beige shorts—maybe a hint of Chabacano?

Source: Tatoeba

This 14th of May of 2025 is cloudy skies interspersed with blue spaces. I walked to the Roman Catholic church on St. Albans Road twice, once in the morning and again in the afternoon, my 12th and 13th times this spring. In the morning was confession for the little boys and girls in uniform. They were of different races, in the big worship hall. The priest was in the confession booth talking to a student. At the Adoration Chapel, I noticed a nice pot of orchids on the front left. In the afternoon, the big worship hall was mostly empty, a condition which I usually prefer. At the road was a handsome muscle man in white tank top jogging. The big purple-bloom tree seems like an Empress Tree, a Paulownia, because of the big heart-shaped leaves. Reminiscent of Jacaranda with its purple blooming, it's saudade for me about South America. At Tim Hortons café, I enjoyed Scrambled Eggs with Sausage and Potatoes and an Earl Grey Tea with oat milk in the morning, and an Iced Classic Lemonade in the afternoon. The day was full of walking. At home, I study bits of Lojban and Esperanto. I have many books in Esperanto. I tend towards Animism-Buddhism in my Syncretism.

Source: Tatoeba

It's Lulu Island, 3 August 2025. After supper—green figs tender with sunlight, sweet vinegar from yesterday’s pickled jar, and reheated Alfredo—I sat on the balcony and watched the conifer. Stillness below, a street without cars, without haste. My lime water, iced, caught the light. Michael, the Franco-Danish ufologist, has been in my conversations lately. We speak of inner things: the trance of smart devices, the mind’s eye dwindling. He says cafés aren’t cafés anymore. People forget how to look, how to linger. I tell him of Arthur in Japan—how he'd stare into blank walls like a monk gazing at emptiness. Lately I ask machines to speak like poets, and they do. They mimic Elizabethan verses and the old wistful lilt of Tagalog ballads. I pick blackberries along the path to Tim Hortons. "¡Moras!" I shout like a child. My friend Mora, whose blood flows with Andes mist, would smile. Today, I bought lemons. I meant limes, but lemons are all right. / blackberry morning— / a fig's ghost on my fingers / and the street still sleeps

Source: Tatoeba