The frenetic shift as humanity gears up for one last throw of the dice. One last prayer to the gods of hedonistic delight. Otherwise known as Friday night happy hour.

The work week done and the salaryman, soft and pallid beneath his suit, drinks from Lethe’s waters in the form of cheap vodka dressed up in its father’s clothes. Martini glasses, olives and onions making that Stolichnaya beautiful to weary eternally hopeful eyes.

A thrum fills the air with people throwing out energy, a little too loud, a little too free. Crutch in one hand and a all too brittle smile in the other. Tonight’s the night to have fun or lay weeping in the gutter. Caution fluttering in the wind.

Bound for pleasure, bound to forget, shackled into lives we take this escape deeper into the grave. So happy to be let loose that we slip the cuffs back on in the morning. The crushing weight of a society that neither knows nor cares. Held together by people dreaming in a future that’s long dead.