What the fuck do you want to do with that thing you call your life?

Write a bunch [novels, essays, plays, libretti, screenplays, liner notes, New Yorker articles, instruction manuals, etc.], and maybe own and run a non-for-profit publishing house that royally pampers its writers, myself included.

Oh, and if by some freak accident I also get to play a solo concert of the Rachmaninoff piano concerto no. 3 in Carnegie Hall, with the Bartok sonata, some Medtner Skazki, some Rzewski, Shostakovich and Scriabin in the second half of the program, with the live recording going on into posterity to be cited as revolutionary interpretations... well, then I'd probably seizure with happiness and spend the rest of my days in a mental asylum laughing uncontrollably.

Jam it back in, in the dark.