As he grew older he realised something—that when you were born, the world was a room full of lights. Neon bulbs, sparkling chandeliers, desk lights, fluorescent bulbs, LED batten and bar lights. Varying in degrees of brightness, but each illuminating the otherwise dark room. 

And then as he aged, an invisible hand began to turn off each bulb. When he was ten, his uncle died from cancer. One of the lamps went out. When he was twenty-five, his pet dog died—and the fluorescent bulbs flickered and popped. And then his grandmother passed on, from old age and Alzheimer's. One of the desk lights fell and crashed. Finally, when he was fifty-four, his father suffered from a brutal concussion—and that was when the room's main ceiling light exploded.

Gradually, but surely, he was left in the darkness.