A Stream of Consciousness in New York

Today is Monday.
The noise from the train drowns along all other sounds.
But the music from my headphones outstretches the pace and rhythm outside my ear canals.
I find that my quiet solitude sits in a tightly wound juxtaposition.
That time moves at a rapid pace and few can catch up.
I suppose this is how anxiety develops.
How is it that I am suddenly growing more comfortable with the pulsing driving notes of this ruckus?
Has the past year tested my outer limits of identity so much so that I no longer give a fuck what happens next?
Maybe so... Maybe so.
Sometimes when I write, I notice a slight lose of breath.
Could it be that the consciousness is totally and hopelessly focused on pumping coherent words?
It's possible.
There is eight weeks left here and then another adventure will ensue.
God only knows what will happen next.
I can only hope it is pleasing and somehow just.
I hope I don't lose myself.
I was just getting comfortable.