http://gdata.youtube.com/feeds/users/marzzymondae2006-04-23T10:51:45.000-07:002008-09-04T00:05:36.000-07:00"our father who art in a penthouse sits in his 37th floor seat and swivels to gaze down at the city he made me in. he allows me to stand and solicite grafitti until he needs the land i stand on. and i in my darkened threshold pawing through my pockets; the receipts, the bus schedules, the urgent napkin poems, matchbook, phone numbers, all of which laundering has rendered pulpy and strange, loose change, and a key. ask me. go ahead. ask me if i care. i got the answer here, i wrote it down somewhere, i just got to find it. and somebody in there's spraypaint got too close, somebody came on too heavy, and now look at me made ugly by the drooling letters. i was better off alone, ain't that the way it is? they don't know the first thing, but you don't know that 'til they take the first swing. my fingers are red and swollen from the cold, i'm getting bold in my old age. so go ahead, try the door. it doesn't matter anymore. i know the weak-hearted are strong-willed, and we're being kept alive until we're killed. he's up there. the ice is clinking in his glass. he sends us little pieces of paper. i don't ask, i just empty my pockets and wait. its not fate, its just circumstance. i don't fool myself with romance. i just live phone number to phone number, dusting them against my thighs, and the warmth of my pockets which whisper history, and incessently asking me 'where were you?'. i lower my eyes, wishing i could cry more, and care less. yes, its true. i was trying to love someone again. i was caught caring, bearing. wait, but i love this city. this state. this country is too large, and whoever's in charge up there better take the elevator down and put more than change in our cup or else we are coming up."marzzymondaehttp://gdata.youtube.com/feeds/users/marzzymondaeAgentM22marzzymondaefsingleSt. Thomas Aquinas SS"our father who art in a penthouse sits in his 37th floor seat and swivels to gaze down at the city he made me in. he allows me to stand and solicite grafitti until he needs the land i stand on. and i in my darkened threshold pawing through my pockets; the receipts, the bus schedules, the urgent napkin poems, matchbook, phone numbers, all of which laundering has rendered pulpy and strange, loose change, and a key. ask me. go ahead. ask me if i care. i got the answer here, i wrote it down somewhere, i just got to find it. and somebody in there's spraypaint got too close, somebody came on too heavy, and now look at me made ugly by the drooling letters. i was better off alone, ain't that the way it is? they don't know the first thing, but you don't know that 'til they take the first swing. my fingers are red and swollen from the cold, i'm getting bold in my old age. so go ahead, try the door. it doesn't matter anymore. i know the weak-hearted are strong-willed, and we're being kept alive until we're killed. he's up there. the ice is clinking in his glass. he sends us little pieces of paper. i don't ask, i just empty my pockets and wait. its not fate, its just circumstance. i don't fool myself with romance. i just live phone number to phone number, dusting them against my thighs, and the warmth of my pockets which whisper history, and incessently asking me 'where were you?'. i lower my eyes, wishing i could cry more, and care less. yes, its true. i was trying to love someone again. i was caught caring, bearing. wait, but i love this city. this state. this country is too large, and whoever's in charge up there better take the elevator down and put more than change in our cup or else we are coming up."