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
Here's the foreign son on holiday
Meeting her eyes about halfway
A look you know it's killed many men
And I've been all of them, inside a week
See the man on the bar who got too drunk to speak
He adores that song, mundane as it is
Days in a dream that wasn't his
Nights up at the top of the lift
Where continents drift too far away
To keep it together for long
On this half holiday
From the bar they walk to Place Pigalle
The taxi waved down
Goodnight, sleep well
Now it's just a step to the door
And he wants all the more to bring her away
Out of this temporary half holiday