One of the first rhythms I remember noticing is of the sound of my father’s fingers banging out his latest manuscript on an old manual typewriter. I always coveted the confidence he had in his thoughts to be able to hammer away at them like that. Every now and then I have a few moments where my own ideas flow out of me and onto the page. Today I had two hours of productive, exciting writing. The sound of my thoughts taking shape brought some moments of hope at a rather bleak time.