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The lion's kiss

No mat­ter where the dream comes from, it some­times con­tin­ues beyond our uncon­scious­ness, illu­mi­nat­ing with its warm lights the real­i­ty of the dawn.

He was a lion in good stand­ing, at least on his first con­tact. How he end­ed up in my bed, the strong sex, I could­n’t remem­ber it or my dream did­n’t think it was appro­pri­ate to pro­vide me with the details. I was scared, I want­ed him. As I kissed him, the lips of his mouth seemed to be those of the men of my past or my desires. What’s the point of know­ing. I retain fear and appetite.

The lion sud­den­ly took on human form, retain­ing only exces­sive, black, intense hair. In small dos­es, as I remem­ber from warm bod­ies, he would let him­self be caressed and pro­tect­ed. I woke up, stunned.

It’s get­ting dark now. I slept for most of the after­noon after look­ing for an image that could match my dream. I was look­ing for some­thing from the Mid­dle Ages, the great sump of our imag­i­na­tion. I also read stu­pid things about the mean­ing of the dream. Of course, a lion rep­re­sents strength, even sav­agery, the jun­gle, adventure.

Yet, I was mak­ing love to my lion. His body was more dif­fuse, dan­ger­ous cer­tain­ly, but evanes­cent as one would expect in a dream. The eroti­cism was very clear, it is not sur­pris­ing to me. Art, after all, is often experience