undecided on title

again, i wrote this a while ago, it's kind of inspired by thinking about how all your achievements are only relative until you die

This old man, he sits by the window collecting dust. It's a sad thing to see; people who pass his window gawp in like tourists to see him, this skeleton in clingfilmed skin. As if his protuding paper mache bones, heaving hollow chest, his baggy hound eyes would stop him from noticing. These people, they love to see his living corpse in its animated meat. His time-lapsed decay. He's their gateway between life and death; close enough to the next life with the milky orbs in his head turned outwards. A reminder that everyone dies in slow motion. The Prometheus of the estate, pecked open every day by these vultures, his glistening bowels strung out in elegant swoops on the rock he's chained to. Sewed back together every night for the carnage tomorrow. He's old in the way you revert to baby language when you talk to him, in your patient and soft voice. To be in his prescense is about as close as anyone will ever get to a seance. Soft peach fuzz and early morning are what you breathe in from him, sweet and damp enough to catch in your throat and make you retch. He chats quietly to himself, and his mouth smells hot and wet, like organisms cooling and dying on liver tongue. He talks in the way you'd expect a pipe organ to sound if you filled it with sand.
'But of course, you wouldn't have me believe it's right? The way they swallow us whole, as if we were the Jonah to their whale? Everyone's aching to know everything about everyone. One might think you couldn't be on your own for a second if you tried. I don't suppose you would notice yourself being gone as long as you've got your car with five seats, audio system and 4 wheel drive. Your job with paid holiday and expenses. Your children with their virtuous faces, clean teeth, good grades. Your red-headed wife. No, no it's not right. You capitalize Government the way you would the Queen. England. God. 'The tourists, as they pass, they miss his dialogue, his social commentary. They just watch as his shrunken scrotum cheeks convulse with the up and down of his wiry jaw, the slap-slapping of his dead purple tongue against the tarnished piss yellow of his remaining teeth. His face contorts again and again, and they wonder what they're doing for dinner.