A few weeks ago we had new hall lights installed in the apartment hallways. These hallways are about 2 and a half feet wide and 10 feet long, and there used to be a round light fixture hanging in the center of the ceiling and shedding a warm glow that could never quite penetrate the corners near our apartment doors.

Now, at each end of the 10-foot-long hallway there’s a very helpful exit sign marking each stairwell door, and about 80% of the rest of the ceiling is covered with a rectangular bank of solid brightness. In the mornings, as I open my door to leave for work, this fluorescent phalanx assaults my entryway. In the evenings, when all the lights are out and I make my last check of the doors and windows, the front door glows with an unearthly light. I can see the door’s outline shimmering from the farthest reaches of the apartment.

You know how in sci-fi movies you can tell the mother ship is coming to experiment on the hapless humans when that cold light squeezes through shutters and keyholes? That’s the light. And every night my last thought before retiring is that the aliens are coming for me.