Friday is the day you think of death Poem by Brane Mozetič

Friday is the day you think of death. That's why
you have to go out, having had enough
of torment, masochism, constantly
running into walls. You're stoned and drunk
and you drive from club to club. You barely know
who you've been kissing, the faces
foggy. You're tempted to take someone
home, but then you forget.
You get stopped by the police who tell you
you're drunk and must continue on foot.
In madness, your friends drag you to the next
hole where you get even more stoned
and drunk. It's dark. The blinds have been pulled down
so that morning will never come.

Translation: 2003, Elizabeta Žargi and Timothy Liu