The lion's kiss | Guy Verville
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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

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