She woke up with a thump,
it was the lady beneath her apartment, as usual, blasting off some old retro jazz, it seemed it was all she had left in the name of music; melodies of happiness and love had long been snatched from her, death of three children and being left by a rich husband to live on the streets isn't a fate all could live happily with.

She knew that lady's plight, thus didn't mind the daily old jazz, she used it as her last alarm.. the one after which waking up is like running a race against time.

One shoe in a hand,
the other hand occupied with, books and a bag, a comb between her teeth, hair frantic as a ravaged bird's nest, her braided ponytail screaming: "help! "

Somehow catching the bus, putting on the shoe on her dirty foot, shutting up the screaming ponytail by twirling it in a bun, she sat thinking:

wasn't everyone's life noise,
those who knew the tempo could make it music; the monks and sages,
those who didn't know the tempo; lived eternally in the trap of a noisy din, relying on external tracks,...