I hope I wake up

I feel as though my head has been concussed. My eyelids are dropped halfway over my glazed over, black circles of  pupils. I touch the skin on my stomach. Is this anything. Is anything worth worrying over. I'm not the guy that you'd see in  magazine adds. I don't stand in poorly lit penthouses and gaze out of reflective and expensive glass windows that overlook reflective and expensive dead cities. His face always hints at feelings of longing.  For someone with which he can share his future, or story, or maybe the cologne sample at the left margin, placed by the superimposed text that eclipses the table in the foreground.  I'm less significant than that guy. He's wearing Burberry shoes an Armani suit that fits his roman body that he maintains by lifting gunmetal and bronze poles and keeps him from having that skin on his stomach. He fits into that Fred Perry polo shirt like it's a coffin built a little too small. No extra flesh clings onto him. This means he's worthwhile. He holds himself together well. The Fred Perry shirt embalms his chest and torso, holding together the dead king contained within, keeping him from decomposing and falling to dust. He looks nice. He's worthwhile. He doesn't mean shit. Neither do I. Insignificance is the moral. Even if you leave an aftershock with a 300 mile diameter, it's going to fade. You'll never be in a museum. None of it will ever be in a museum. We have nothing to offer. All those points you made, all the friends you had, all the work you did, all the discoveries you made, all the money you earned, it all belongs to a planet with a building on it. A museum where they keep some shit to make someone last a little longer. The more desecration the more story you have. But fuck it. It doesn't matter because nobody will be looking in a minute. Nobody ever looks long enough to see your accomplishments. Or to see you bring life to a dead and scuffed up wall.  The ripples always fade away eventually. Just give it some time jeez.