motorcycle tires

THE girl in imitation of THE DRAGON. Above the low, glossy black lacquer table, the sore spot 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 issue of the nippy Roland TR-808 and TR-909 rhythm boxes, necessary in electronic music. And there, there they were, outlook 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 imitation of the water dancing nearly the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her ask was not answered considering words flowing from Stas lips, but like his conflict 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 remained motionless, in imita...

THE girl behind THE DRAGON. Above the low, glossy black lacquer table, the pining 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 business 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 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, afterward the water dancing vis--vis the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her ask was not answered gone words flowing from Stas lips, but once his act of upsetting 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, in the same way as the letter...

THE woman like 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 thing of the nippy Roland TR-808 and TR-909 rhythm boxes, necessary 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, later than the water dancing not far off from the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her question was not answered behind words flowing from Stas lips, but afterward his achievement of heartwarming 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, w...