Look at them: nine humans in a kitchen at three in the morning, and every one of them is a furnace running at almost exactly 310 kelvin, radiating heat like small stars. You cannot switch it off. Each body is dumping roughly a hundred watts of infrared into that room, which is why the windows have fogged, why someone keeps insisting it is "so hot in here" and cracking a door.
Nine people is nine hundred watts. They have accidentally built a space heater out of themselves and are surprised by the result.
Listen to the low roar under the music. That is air being pushed by vocal folds vibrating a hundred-odd times a second, pressure waves rippling out at 343 meters per second, crashing off the walls, into eardrums, converted to nerve signal, mostly ignored. Every laugh is a little explosion of ordered energy fleeing into disorder. The room is running relentlessly toward equilibrium and losing, only because the furnaces keep feeding it.
And the drinks, warm now, ice long melted. Watch the condensation bead on a forgotten glass: water molecules from the air, slowed by the cold surface, giving up their motion and their freedom, latching down. Order, briefly, out of chaos. It will not last.
Here is the part that stops me. Every carbon atom in every one of these swaying bodies, in the beer and the countertop and the half-eaten crackers, was forged inside a dying star and flung across the galaxy before the sun existed. Nine billion-year-old collections of stellar ash have assembled themselves in a rented kitchen, warmed the air to 310 kelvin, and are using their last coherent hours of the night to make pressure waves at each other about someone named Kevin.
The universe cooled for thirteen billion years to arrange this.