THE woman behind 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 matter 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 cool Japanese, as soon as the water dancing all but the torii of Itsukushima Shrine. Her ask was not answered once words flowing from Stas lips, but subsequent to his act 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, similar to the...