Twenty thousand mammals gather in a climate-controlled box and the first thing I want to know is the wattage.
Consider the fursuits. Each one is a person, roughly a hundred watts of resting metabolic heat, now sealed inside foam and synthetic pile with the thermal conductivity of a winter sleeping bag. A human body dumps waste heat through evaporation off the skin, but here the skin is wrapped in polyester, and polyester does not sweat.
So the wearer becomes a small furnace with the doors welded shut. Their core temperature climbs; blood rushes to the surface to shed a heat that has nowhere to go. This is why they carry the little battery fans. Those fans are not comfort. They are a survival strategy against the second law of thermodynamics, which insists that all that muscular chemistry must end as warmth spilling into the room, and the room, obligingly, warms.
Now widen the view. Every one of those twenty thousand hundred-watt bodies is running on glucose, and every glucose molecule was assembled by a plant splitting water and stitching carbon using photons that left the surface of the Sun eight minutes before landing on a leaf. The dancing in the atrium, the fur, the fans, the whole shimmering heat-haze of the ballroom: all of it is sunlight, caught, chemically shelved, and released again on a schedule of the crowd's own choosing.
And the acrylic pile of the suits, the foam, the plastic fan blades, the polyester paws, nearly every atom of it is carbon that spent a hundred million years as the crushed bodies of ancient marine plankton, dug up and re-spun into the shape of a cartoon wolf.
So a fox costume dances in a hotel ballroom, and it is fossilized ocean, warmed by a star, briefly wearing a face.