Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Heatmiser
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
A Murder Of Crows
Elliott Smith
Heatmiser
Elliott Smith
Stranger Than Fiction
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Tired of looking sideways
But the thing's in black and white
No more
No more
Arguing my case to the mean hounds of the night
What for?
What for?
What for?
Put it in your face and let the petals fall
Cursing your family name
Let me be unhappy as the cause of it all
I'm panicked and hateful
With nothing to blame
That's a useful dream
That pretended to explain
But no more
No more
No more
Superstition in the image of
One I already believe
Easier to use, cause I made it up
To deal with the same things
Tired of looking sideways
But the thing's in black and white
What for?
What for?
What for?