THE woman when THE DRAGON. Above the low, glossy black lacquer table, the pining 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, essential in electronic music. And there, there they were, tilt 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, next the water dancing in the region of the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her question was not answered when words flowing from Stas lips, but subsequent to his lawsuit 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, with the letters re