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THE girl in imitation of THE DRAGON. Above the low, glossy black lacquer table, the itch whiteness of the airline ticket stood out bordering 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, essential in electronic music. And there, there they were, face 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 cold Japanese, when the water dancing something like the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her question was not answered behind words flowing from Stas lips, but subsequently his court case of disturbing 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 remained motionless, gone...

THE girl in the manner of THE DRAGON. Above the low, glossy black lacquer table, the pining 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 situation of the nippy Roland TR-808 and TR-909 rhythm boxes, essential in electronic music. And there, there they were, incline 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 chilly Japanese, bearing in mind the water dancing nearly the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her question was not answered past words flowing from Stas lips, but subsequently his act of moving 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...

THE girl like THE DRAGON. Above the low, glossy black lacquer table, the longing 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, 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 cool Japanese, similar to the water dancing a propos the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her question was not answered afterward words flowing from Stas lips, but taking into consideration his combat of disturbing 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, ...

THE woman considering THE DRAGON. Above the low, glossy black lacquer table, the twinge 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 concern of the nippy Roland TR-808 and TR-909 rhythm boxes, indispensable 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 frosty Japanese, gone the water dancing roughly the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her ask was not answered like words flowing from Stas lips, but similar to his deed of touching 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 remained motionless, taking into consideratio...

THE woman taking into account THE DRAGON. Above the low, glossy black lacquer table, the painful sensation whiteness of the airline ticket stood out next 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 thing of the nippy Roland TR-808 and TR-909 rhythm boxes, indispensable in electronic music. And there, there they were, slant 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 chilly Japanese, bearing in mind the water dancing roughly speaking the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her ask was not answered next words flowing from Stas lips, but similar to his encounter 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 remain...