It is the 4th of September of 2013. Some say that Esperanto is like Spanish or Italian. Actually, these latter languages are sweet like almond nougat or chocolate cake. Esperanto has a more subtle taste like tofu, radish, or steamed vegetables with oyster sauce. Esperanto suits the Centralian mind better than does Interlingua, Spanish, Italian, French, or Portuguese. It really is more suitable for an Eastern mind.

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

His way of thinking is very childish.

Source: Tatoeba