The golden lion limped through savannah. Sun blazing, scars reflecting. Each marred his face – brutal memoirs. He avoided the pride, indifferent to their youth. Such was the cost for authenticity. It was not pride, nor vanity. Merely survival. Pain was familiar, a Dasein spirit. Suffering was inevitable; he accepted it. His gaze of determined fierceness remained unbroken. His heart echoed untamed beats. Vulnerability did not defeat him, it became him. He existed thus, a noncomformist. No discouragement, only courageous pursuit. Every step was a roar. The embodiment of unrelenting passion. An undeniable presence of golden authority. The scarred lion, undefeated by time.