I prepare to go to the pool but arrive there to find it closed. Now, imagine that I put on my shoes, get my keys, drive to the pool, and face the closed door not once, but repeatedly and intentionally. I keep doing so (I imagine) because I enjoy putting on my shoes, getting my keys, and so on—that is, because of my very doing of these actions. Behaving this way would surely indicate a sort of sickness; if I can’t go to the pool, I should do something else. Yet we do something like this when we remain trapped in our endlessly busy, workaholic selves. We work for the sake of money, which supports our continued work. We work even harder, for even more money, which we have even less time to spend on anything but supporting our work. Work for the sake of work is pointless; it ought to culminate in something further. But it does not feel pointless, because we thrill in our own action and experience.