Elliott Smith lives in an attic off Elm now, surrounded by broken bottles and jokerless poker decks. He whines about the rain more than any one living near the Cascades should. He writes R&B songs for up-and-coming divas, now, under the pen name Quincy Spectre. His greatest enjoyment is not writing the songs, it is his seeing his clever pen name on the inside ring of each forty-five. He never signs a contract that doesn’t include the Quincy Spectre 45 Clause, and he never plays guitar any more, because that fucking thing pushed him into hiding in the first place. Over and over again he didn’t finish what he started, but this guitar ban will carry with him until he dies again, for real this time.