I happened to call Mr. Burton the night of the show. We’re intimates from way back, and that night I sensed a melancholy in my old friend. “Funny you calling,” he said. “I was just thinking about my work, and the show, and the last show, and wondering if there’s really any reason left to live. I can’t think of one. Can you?” I was taken aback at the sudden darkness of the question and I must have hesitated, because the next thing I knew he said, “Too long with your answer,” and there was a loud bang. I feared the worst and called for paramedics, but I was too late.

It was poignant, to be sure, especially with the coincidental phone call. But the act was suffocated by cliché. His final worldly endeavor, and he’s quoting Vonnegut? Is originality dead?

Still, he was a hell of an artist. He will be missed.