Musician. Human. Chaos Dispensing Entity. Architect of the Judaslands. Survivor of The Hopeless Inferno.
Welcome to my particular slice of the digital apocalypse. My name is Hopeless Judas—a moniker, a mask, a loaded confession. If you’re here, you’re probably lost, curious, or catastrophically bored. Congratulations. You’ve found the right pit. My real name is John. Womp womp. Boring.
So, who the Hell Is Hopeless Judas?
First, the basics: I make music. Not the kind you put on at parties unless your parties are populated by existential nihilists, burned-out romantics, and people who still think Nine Inch Nails was a love story. I make music for the survivors—the ones who keep going after the world caves in, because what the hell else are we going to do? My sound is part industrial wreckage, part fever-dream, part gospel for the doomed.
But I’m not just a noise merchant. I’m human, or at least the closest approximation you’ll get after this much exposure to entropy. I bleed, I break, I get back up. I’ve lost things I’ll never find again. Maybe you have, too. That’s why you’re here.
And yes, I am a chaos dispensing entity. Not because I want to watch the world burn (well… not all the time), but because sometimes, chaos is the only way to till the soil and let something honest grow. Order is a beautiful lie; chaos is the honest bastard child of hope and reality.
What Are the Judaslands?
Glad you asked, stranger. The Judaslands is the world I built when reality proved too small. Think: digital Eden spiked with neon, stitched together with cyberpunk paranoia and the ragged hope of a survivor who refuses to play dead. It’s not a utopia, and it’s sure as hell not a dystopia. It’s an experiment—a question with no polite answer: What happens when you take everything away but leave people their will to fight, love, and make art?
In the Judaslands, everyone’s got a story and nobody’s innocent. The rules bend. The ghosts are real. The only currency that matters is what you can create and who you can save—yourself included.
The Hopeless Inferno
Every world needs its own myth, and The Hopeless Inferno is mine. It’s the album, the odyssey, the roaring engine that drives all of this. It’s part concept record, part spoken-word fever-dream, part suicide note to the parts of myself that couldn’t make it out alive.
The story? A grieving, broken figure (call him Rabbit, call him Stranger, call him Me) is sucked through the digital membrane into the Judaslands after loss, guilt, and grief strip him to the bone. He meets angels with dirty faces and devils with good intentions. He’s pursued by Glytch and ABIGAIL—haunted AIs and the shadows of trauma, cast into living code. He runs, he hides, he claws his way through a city that’s as beautiful as it is unforgiving. Along the way, he meets narrators with guitars and guns, prophets who speak in riddles, and the leftover saints of a broken world.
Sound familiar? Maybe because it is. This is the story of anyone who’s had to start over. Anyone who’s stared into the abyss and decided, “Fuck you, I’m still here.” The Hopeless Inferno is a roadmap for anyone who’s lost the map.
Why Write? Why Sing? Why Bleed On The Page?
Because someone has to. Because the world is already full of plastic promises and easy answers. Because I don’t know how to do anything else. Because there’s no way out but through.
If you want neatly tied-up stories, look elsewhere. If you want to watch someone wrestle with hope, grief, and the bastard magic of being alive—if you want to see how music, words, and chaos can become a lifeline—then pull up a chair.
Welcome to the Judaslands. Welcome to the Hopeless Inferno. Welcome to the riot in my head.
