"Hard to thrill, nothing really moves me anymore, hard to thrill, nothing really moves me anymore, there is nothing you can show me that I haven't seen before
I got time to kill, keeping to myself inside this room, time to kill, keeping to myself inside this room, over 40 years of Fridays, and you'd give up trying too"
From Hard to Thrill, Eric Clapton and J.J. Cale
Shit, the only reason I'm hard to thrill is that I killed everything inside of me. Burned it, beat it, smothered it, starved it - been specializing in that unique form of torture for five decades now. Got it down pretty good.
I did not realize that there was an ember smoldering in there, absolutely fucking refusing to give up the ghost, a small, very tiny bit of essence that cannot be killed until I am actually dead.
It's been throwing off a little more heat lately.
You never know.
You never really fucking know.
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