Apocalust -

So they did. On car hoods still warm from the fires. In churches where the stained glass wept colors onto naked backs. With names forgotten by morning, faces blurred by the next wave of heat.

And oh, how they fed.

Here’s a piece of text built around the word — a fusion of apocalypse and lust . The sky didn’t fall. It opened — like a torn dress, like a wound finally given permission to bleed. That’s when the apocalust began. apocalust