A lighthouse at night time:
Photons pouring from internal light source penetrating windows lunging beyond to distant retinas pacing bridges in motion.
The 183rd floor  of a tower in daytime:
The opposite is true. 
Arriving at the Presidential party disguised as a paedophile priest (the Jesus figure on my crucifix is a naked child), I’m soon circulating and smiling , looking for somewhere to stash my stuff. Nobody at all comments upon the long bulge beneath my cassock. Those that do comment  upon the long bulge beneath my cassock are assured that it’s a baguette, placed there to justify my French accent. This explanation serves extremely well, considering that the baguette is actually a Kalashnikov assault rifle.
Security is tight. To my left: three shiny black chairs simultaneously explode , revealing three crouched kevlar-clad and gas-masked policemen, aiming guns at nobody in particular and screaming:
Transfixed by the President’s mutism, the echolalia-afflicted crowd pays no attention.
After the three kevlar-clad and gas-masked policemen have popped out from the exploding chairs , her father grabs me from behind (in a way that suggests anal rape is imminent). His love scent smells wonderful.
“Jesus Mary Holy Mother of God, I never imagined in my wildest dreams I’d ever be taken from behind by a famous star  like you”, I giggle.
“You filthy goddamned fag  – I could snap your spine like a goddamned carrot”, he hisses in my ear.
“You boys”, laughs his daughter, photons of lightness erupting from her externally joyous body. Inside this perfect carapace, maggots are exponentially reproducing.
Later, as we charge down the tower’s endless spiral staircase, I wonder if we are descending for another reason entirely. Above us, a comminatory crescendo is commencing; caused, I imagine, by God re-arranging the furniture.
 Some of it, anyway.
 In a superficial (priestly) kind of way.
 In a superficial (non-priestly) kind of way.
 I don’t recall if any guests were sitting upon them at the time.
 I still don’t recall if any guests were sitting upon them at the time.
 Her is my lover, my accomplice.
 A veteran of westerns and biblical epics, followed by a not unsuccessful career in soaps and political conventions (for example, Charlton Heston).
 The irony (hypocrisy, even) here being that the veteran of westerns and biblical epics, followed by a not unsuccessful career in soaps and political conventions (for example, Charlton Heston) is in fact a rampaging bisexual.
 The pursuing Secret Service team suspected them of running from a bomb they had supposedly planted, rather than for a power lunch, the reason for which is business and hunger combined.
 Father McKendrick’s furniture assumption was posthumously discovered to be correct, metaphorically speaking.