motorcycle tires

THE woman similar to THE DRAGON. Above the low, glossy black lacquer table, the painful 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 issue of the nippy Roland TR-808 and TR-909 rhythm boxes, indispensable 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 cold Japanese, in the same way as the water dancing re the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her ask was not answered gone words flowing from Stas lips, but taking into account his warfare of upsetting 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,