First time getting into the pit at a show: R. BHOODHOO & THE BLUE HELL was there and the ones who pushed you in, “Rolled Cold.” Hell On A Hill is that reminder of how the end of that night painted a haze of crystal colors fragmenting “TETP” like ripples in water. Psyche crashing around your shoes, “Oh, shit. I lost a shoe? In the pit, I gotta find..” You trip over your shoe and make eye contact with it in a circle pit, as you do another rotation and pick it up on the way back over. Now talking to yourself on a “Seasonal” -only golf course somewhere in suburbia, maybe, or at least over the bridge, Hell On A Hill broods around your mind like a storm cloud. Emissions from your eyes upon darkness, stars, and “Blacc Olyv” confirming your worst fears.

Pause screen. That cheat code or password saved that takes you to the fourth level with max stamina and cigarettes you eat for health with only one dialogue option, “It Must’ve Been U.” The eye contact is endearing enough without visuals. Possibly buy a used car, but in this changing climate? Back on that golf course 30 years late laying upon Hell On A Hill hand-in-hand with the same person you been with since the night after (Slight Themes). Expecting the most “Scold Roll” outcome and overloading into a minimal amount of pain. R. BHOODHOO & THE BLUE HELL always wins some; sometimes marginal kicks the kicks the kicks the; drools from mouth. For a 40-mile gaze. Impromptu majesty of conclusion, an (Instrumental Mix). The only way to make sometime nearly perfect is an unexpected clincher of an end. Hell On A Hill is meant to be hummed; I’m certain of it:

Backstory
THE BLUE HELL is a fake band inspired by a comic screenplay — HELL ON A HILL — conceived by Hoss after a series of nightly dreams in September 2016 involving an intense, platform-game-like, attempted escape from a collapsing, endlessly refracting, and continuously burning home. Throughout the journey, Hurst encounters various family members, living and deceased, who offer both real-time advice and dire warnings from the interdimensional void (“the Blue Hell”) as he attempts to escape.

Resoundingly, the concept of HELL ON A HILL, glittered in bursts of looped repetition, almost glitched into imagination, gets me feeling more personally attached to it. Under its spell of false reality. When I mimicked and transposed my Grams’s soul-of-luck into mine, playing dice together drinking scotch every day I got off work. In no way do I believe in an actual soul, nor do I surround myself in the superstition of luck. Maybe I just notice an opportunity with another now in the minutiae of daily life, due to my frequent interactions with Grams before she passed. One day, I’ll share this thought with holoGrams that I extracted from my memory and implanted upon her gravesite.

First time getting into the pit at a show: R. BHOODHOO & THE BLUE HELL was there and the ones who pushed you in, “Rolled Cold.” Hell On A Hill is that reminder of how the end of that night painted a haze of crystal colors fragmenting “TETP” like ripples in water. Psyche crashing around your shoes, “Oh, shit. I lost a shoe? In the pit, I gotta find..” You trip over your shoe and make eye contact with it in a circle pit, as you do another rotation and pick it up on the way back over. Now talking to yourself on a “Seasonal” -only golf course somewhere in suburbia, maybe, or at least over the bridge, Hell On A Hill broods around your mind like a storm cloud. Emissions from your eyes upon darkness, stars, and “Blacc Olyv” confirming your worst fears.

Pause screen. That cheat code or password saved that takes you to the fourth level with max stamina and cigarettes you eat for health with only one dialogue option, “It Must’ve Been U.” The eye contact is endearing enough without visuals. Possibly buy a used car, but in this changing climate? Back on that golf course 30 years late laying upon Hell On A Hill hand-in-hand with the same person you been with since the night after (Slight Themes). Expecting the most “Scold Roll” outcome and overloading into a minimal amount of pain. R. BHOODHOO & THE BLUE HELL always wins some; sometimes marginal kicks the kicks the kicks the; drools from mouth. For a 40-mile gaze. Impromptu majesty of conclusion, an (Instrumental Mix). The only way to make sometime nearly perfect is an unexpected clincher of an end. Hell On A Hill is meant to be hummed; I’m certain of it:

Backstory
THE BLUE HELL is a fake band inspired by a comic screenplay — HELL ON A HILL — conceived by Hoss after a series of nightly dreams in September 2016 involving an intense, platform-game-like, attempted escape from a collapsing, endlessly refracting, and continuously burning home. Throughout the journey, Hurst encounters various family members, living and deceased, who offer both real-time advice and dire warnings from the interdimensional void (“the Blue Hell”) as he attempts to escape.

Resoundingly, the concept of HELL ON A HILL, glittered in bursts of looped repetition, almost glitched into imagination, gets me feeling more personally attached to it. Under its spell of false reality. When I mimicked and transposed my Grams’s soul-of-luck into mine, playing dice together drinking scotch every day I got off work. In no way do I believe in an actual soul, nor do I surround myself in the superstition of luck. Maybe I just notice an opportunity with another now in the minutiae of daily life, due to my frequent interactions with Grams before she passed. One day, I’ll share this thought with holoGrams that I extracted from my memory and implanted upon her gravesite.