It’s rhythm finally that makes it work. That’s what Wright wrote about writing poems. This applies to other humanities as well – for example running, riding a bike, sex. Yet it also touches those puzzles that are suddenly bang in your life and you’re timed to discern how to make them work not because you have to but because you must must. So you try try as if your life depended on it, (because you never know, it may) to find the rhythm of the unplanned thing commonly known as trial or tribulation or rumor of war (all also commonly known as life). There’s a decent chance you’ll flop, that you’ll be left standing holding nothing but a basket of leftovers from the miracle that at least you tried by God. And what’s in the basket? Cookies with fortunes in their folds that read: BELIEVE IN MIRACLES (wow, thanks a lot). But go on, take, eat. The chewing may rouse the healthy irreverence of memory, like that windy elementary day the girl named Penny winked at you as she skipped and skipped and skipped rope again as if your life depended on it. It’s rhythm finally that makes it work.