Some more of that old tattered copy of 1984 bites the dust, but with honour.
"Winston and Julia clung together, fascinated. The music went on and on, minute after minute, with astonishing variations, never once repeating itself, almost as though the bird were deliberately showing off its virtuosity. Sometimes it stopped for a few seconds, spread out and resettled its wings, then swelled its speckled breast and again burst into song. Winston watched it with a sort of vague reverence. For whom, for what, was that bird singing? No mate, no rival was watching it. What made it sit at the edge of the lonely wood and pour its music into nothingness?"
What makes you sing? Or write, or do art, or "pour your music into nothingness", whatever that music may be?
"He wasn't singing to us," said Julia. "He was singing to please himself. Not even that. He was just singing."