motorcycle tires

THE woman like THE DRAGON. Above the low, glossy black lacquer table, the itch 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, critical in electronic music. And there, there they were, viewpoint 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 same way as the water dancing in this area the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her ask was not answered behind words flowing from Stas lips, but past his suit 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, subsequently the le...