1 matching entry and 4+ matching sentences.
Sentences
On the 14th of April of 2015, I walk to the Richmond Public Market, I first climbing the stairs outside. Inside, the wide atrium-like building is like a garden in a jungle surrounding, I imagine. Already quite hungry, I trot to Captain Wa, the food vendor, to get noodles with squid, fish, and tofu, as well as hot tea. As I eat, a handsome First Nations man in a purple T-shirt walks by. Then a handsome, stocky Jewish fellow walks by. A few minutes later, I begin to thirst, so I get a cold Mint Bubble Green Tea at the vendor QQ Bubble Tea and Coffee. I sit by the stairs to sip. A threesome family sits eating nearby, the man being black, the woman being Oriental, and the child being a hybrid. Addicted to Bubble Tea, I get another one, this time at Peanut's. It is a cold Green Apple Bubble Green Tea. It is delicious. I take the escalator down. On my way to the washroom, I notice a big aquarium full of probably giant red Alaskan king crabs with barnacles on their legs. They remind me of extraterrestrials, somehow. At the bookstore, I buy a heavily illustrated green botany book in sinograms. I left it on top of a box a month ago and it is still there. It is $14. I take the escalator up. Addicted to Bubble Tea, I spend my remaining coins on a cold Lychee Bubble Green Tea. It is delicious with even bits of white lychee flesh.
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