Figure D8 TEMPERATE

We travel south, to a black room so cold

Our breath emerges as a freezing fog.

The Universe, immeasurably old,

Has darkened to that stale, entropick bog

That scholars call HEAT DEATH: but as the log

Grows slower yet still grows, here life has ways

To eke out ancient stars. Time’s greatest cog

Ticks slower still, and creatures of those days

Little suspect that we dwelt in the Big Bang’s blaze.