William had taken advantage of having his classroom to himself. It was eerily dark and that much time alone (save some stragglers who crashed other rooms for refuge), well it could make anyone look a little on the crazy side.
His phone was on it's last legs, so he used the handheld flashlight and pointed it towards the stage. It gave an ominous spotlight. He'd lived in a time when there was no electricity (a time he was much more comfortable with), so he lit a few candles and placed them on various desks and then put on what was considered a costume hat now, a cape and used this as a chance to recite as if he were on the Globe stage again. He used to act, people often forgot that.
Believing no one else was around he just let loose and started to act a scene from one of his own plays. Maybe it would evoke some newfound sonnet or play that had been buried deep down inside of him. He hadn't been able to write (really write) for centuries. The world took it from him to the point that he was just a weak rubber band that had been stretched as far as it could go. Now it couldn't even be launched across the room. But this? Acting and reciting things? Maybe that would be a newfound avenue. A new platform and stage to set. Maybe all this time he had been trying to go down the wrong path. Maybe the darkness wasn't evil at all, maybe it was a gift.