THE woman like THE DRAGON. Above the low, glossy black lacquer table, the desire whiteness of the airline ticket stood out next-door to a serving bottle of sake and an ochoko[1]. The rain sounded, pretending to drown out the voice of Lie To Me[2], and percussed in the meninges of both as if it were a situation of the nippy Roland TR-808 and TR-909 rhythm boxes, essential in electronic music. And there, there they were, slant to face, without smoke, without others to fill a non-existent track or MDMA to cloud their reasoning or neon lights to illuminate them. -Is that all? -Monique finally blurted out, in frosty Japanese, in the manner of the water dancing on the subject of the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her question was not answered subsequently words flowing from Stas lips, but in the same way as his fighting of moving his feet on the tatami to withdraw. For a few seconds, brief, intense and bitter, comparable to the taste of the dregs of her last mug of tea, she remaine...
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