If the lions were flowers maybe I would love them. The lions are Claude’s favorite creatures. They're such carnivorous blossoms. Flowers lodged in the shadows of the rocks, not so far from ourselves, too close, wilting, leaping, flying off like balloons tingling, roaring only with the noise of the petals falling. The lions are not flowers. They're anything but flowers. They're antigentleness. If the lions were seasons then every season would be a disaster, and it almost seems that the lions are there to eat us, are there to torment us, are there to make us fall down, to crash, to erupt and to crave, as the lions chase us from one day to the next; since the plastic lions are nothing but desires, the lions are toys of desires and dreams of pride, the pride of dreams, the dreams of things, the roars of things, the roars of things.