These places actually exist. I would very much like to look down from atop a lighthouse and let my gaze spiral downward giddily into the arms of a tempestuous wave hurling itself in a feverish rage against a scabrous rock. Over, and over again. It would not be consumed by this unbridled puissance, wearing instead its frothy remains much like a diadem of thorns, a collar of ice.

But I would be up there, safe. Watching the lone ray ricochet off the surface of black waters as an empty repetitious song echoes through the masonry blocks and up endless spirals steps. Soon the words would leave me, stripped, just like the tide thieves away at the shore.

Though the pleasures would remain when the senses have died.