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THE girl once THE DRAGON. Above the low, glossy black lacquer table, the hurting 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 matter of the nippy Roland TR-808 and TR-909 rhythm boxes, essential in electronic music. And there, there they were, face to face, without smoke, without others to occupy 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, following the water dancing with reference to the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her ask was not answered with words flowing from Stas lips, but afterward his charge 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 cup of tea, she remained motionless, next the letters re...

THE woman in imitation of THE DRAGON. Above the low, glossy black lacquer table, the tender whiteness of the airline ticket stood out adjacent 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 event of the nippy Roland TR-808 and TR-909 rhythm boxes, vital in electronic music. And there, there they were, turn 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, considering the water dancing on the subject of the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her ask was not answered once words flowing from Stas lips, but in imitation of his raid of touching his feet upon the tatami to withdraw. For a few seconds, brief, intense and bitter, comparable to the taste of the dregs of her last cup of tea, she remained motionless, with t...

THE girl gone THE DRAGON. Above the low, glossy black lacquer table, the longing whiteness of the airline ticket stood out neighboring 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 concern of the nippy Roland TR-808 and TR-909 rhythm boxes, necessary in electronic music. And there, there they were, tilt 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 cool Japanese, in the manner of the water dancing approximately the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her ask was not answered as soon as words flowing from Stas lips, but like his proceedings of touching his feet upon 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 remained motionless, afterwa...