Telling stories to anyone who will hear them as stories, who doesn’t know you, who doesn’t expect literature. Life as wandering storyteller would be nice. Someone says the word, and you tell the story. You never stop, day or night, you go blind, you lose the use of your limb. But your moth still serves its function, and you speak whatever is in your head. You have no possessions, only an infinite, every-growing number of stories.
Nicest of all would be if you could live on words alone and did not even need to eat.