Black Hundreds Home

Introducing The Black100s.

Impossibly tall. Impossibly pale.

There's bad wiring and chemicals, 2.

3 rivers cross over the broken rail outside his window. His days are spent in a factory - staring at the walls with a hot glue gun. Hidden away in the empty places of New Jersey. At night, he sits in the room he grew up in. He writes and he plays for the walls still. He tries - night after night - to knit himself back together with the memories of ghosts. He's getting closer. He'll be singing the song he wrote for her. He knows she'll hear him and understand. If he can just find the right 3 chords… His 1,000 mile stare is only introspective. Maybe we don't really want to know, but he'll show us anyway. His smile sadly hurtful. The forgotten and lost have beauty still.

Somewhere, there's a radio raising the dead tonight.

The Black 100s
The Black Hundreds are on the radio.
the black 100s