Cold

Cold doesn’t come, heat goes. Armageddon isn’t a battlefield of soldiers; it’s a dark, low energy tundra. It is a space where atoms toddle in objects at rest, finally able to relax into shards and blobs. The end is only an end because we have a word for it, an end for us. Heat is the waste of flowers being pollinated, love for cherubs and the light we write our bibles by. It’s the infrared heat in the panel that sets the ink on a Stryper T-shirt and the fire that keeps a grandmother from death. It will never be extinguished, but it will average out.