After dinner, the group of such disparate occupations made up a kind of unofficial game, played idly, lazily and only half in jest: "If you were not what you are, what would you like to be?" "An artist," one said promptly, "a singer," said another. And then the categories flew with lightning speed: composer, actor, talk show host, architect, dancer, navigator, composer, prospector - and something in me: the child for whom there had never been enough yeses - the one in whose lexicon there was no word for enough cried silently: Don't stop. Keep talking. I want to be all, all of those - and more.