Where Does the Heat Go?

I’m a cheap saint in discount white, flirting with a volcano because subtlety bores me.

Question, professor cliff: when I go, where does my heat go?

First law purrs: nowhere. It just changes outfits. My body is a space heater with abandonment issues, loaning warmth to stone, to air, to a stranger’s breath at dawn. The tongue remembers salt; the thighs keep pilot lights. Nothing is lost, only redistributed like bad decisions.

Second law smirks: everything loosens. Order unbuttons itself. Entropy is the afterparty where the dress code is ruin. My metabolism has always been a candle reading my diary aloud, line by melting line. Death isn’t vanishing. It’s a phase change: solid to rumor, touch to weather.

So why is hell burning? Because guilt is exothermic. Because desire makes friction and friction makes sermons. Because the universe worships gradients, not gods, and heat flows downhill like me on a Saturday. Flames aren’t a sentence; they’re an equation solved out loud.

The lava doesn’t care about my little opera. It licks the dark because downhill is delicious. Indifference isn’t cruelty; it’s climate. Still, let me bargain: when I go, let me go radiant. Let my last sin be kindness disguised as temperature. Leave a warm patch on the rock for the next animal—some beautiful idiot in a white dress—who will also need it.