Here comes the artist to his own funeral. He’s brought a canvas for the occasion: carnations across a table and fresh pears. He walked from two towns over, crossed a river, gathered courage to overcome the swamp. Now he has arrived; tired, spent, with dust, impatient for the ceremony to begin. This is a man who will not sleep until it’s over, sitting in the final pew, head bowed and fingers laced as if in prayer, meditating on all the breaths he will regret not having drawn.