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.