I live for joy!

A man in a fishing club arranges his whole year around one week in October on a riverbank with a rod and a flask. Eleven months of ordinary work, held up by that.

Living for something means it gets to shape the calendar instead of filling the gaps left over. Plenty of people have the thing. Fewer let it anywhere near the diary.

What would turn up if somebody read your last twelve months as evidence? Not what you'd say you live for — what actually got booked, protected, and refused on behalf of.