A hotel room I stayed in recently in Manchester had no fewer than 23 lights. (Trying to turn all of the damned things off at bedtime was so frustrating that I actually counted them!)
Of course, they would provide perfect back-lit illumination were one to need to display a girl to passers-by – and, with large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking one of the city centre’s busiest road junctions, that possibility would certainly have occurred to me had I had a suitable girl to hand. But actually, it made me contemplate a room with just one light. A cell. Damp, dark, a stone floor. No windows. The heavy door bolted shut, protected by a uniformed guard. The one bulb hung from the ceiling, its rays shining down onto a table over which a sobbing girl was tied.
She’d given her two interrogators useful information once the whipping hand become unbearable. And now the two officers conferred: “I wonder what else she’d tell us if we fucked her…?”