Dr Filth reappeared that evening. It was impossible for him not to do so. And as he lay on the wooden floor, he made a perfect smoke ring from his dark and unbearable lips while concentrating on the array of cobwebs. To his fancy, the windows were open as it used to be when she was there. He had been so miserable, he almost felt it was a lonely spirit that had spoken to him. There was nothing he could do but murmur 'macabre', when he remembered her eyeliner, and her beautiful eyes glancing at him. He quibbled about feeling love, as though he had found a coin in his always-empty pocket. He could do nothing, it was all the same thoughts even after reading a few thousand books from a thousand centuries.
Dr Filth had no idea that it was him who had coined the famous phrase, 'I hate Mondays', before it caught the fascination of the society. He would have been surprised to know this, he felt that pain was a fatherless child only he had parented in his one room of orphanage.
For, of course, he would drink his whiskey and nail polish every evening, but he was only a 100 years old or so he felt. He had distanced him so further from the company he used to keep, it didn't matter to him anymore to wonder whether it was still impolite to roll his tongue on women's cleavage in that quaint fashion to wish them a wonderful, promising evening.
He had been a famous, only his names weren't in the books. Cornelius Agrippa to Alister Crowley would crawl through his window at nights and give him mescaline for a few of his words, but he believed in working for a stranger truth that was still unprepared for the world.
His little room inside his little room, he scribbled every night and tore into tiny shreds as the first morning light touched his windowsill. It really never meant anything to him, as it never really did. He hadn't slept for a thousand nights, he cried with the violins, tasted the mud of her grave and wrote childish letters to the Pope. He felt weary, and he closed his eyes again, now for a bit longer period.