The sands of time, they endlessly trickle. At the end of all things, the heat death of the universe, such trivial things as light and warmth become so frail and fickle. But every night, little by little, the sands of time keep grinding down to their slow yet abrupt end.
Things continue on, in a way, noticing that nothing is ever truly lost to time. When the last of us are all gone, and there is no longer any life left to bear witness to creation, I'll consider it a crime in and of itself. A crime of nature by nature itself. Even the last of the black holes will fizzle away into nothingness, given enough time. The ergosphere of black holes we get our last remaining energy reserves from, leeching away from it's rotational speed will ultimately end up leaving us cold and alone to the bitter end, before the last of the black holes actually leave us.
And yet here we are.
Two friends, lounging at the end of all creation. What little light and warmth we can enjoy, quite the sensation, without each other, we are alone, like we once believed early on in the universe. But we found life. Oh boy did we find life in the early ages of the universe. We found we weren't so alone after all.
And here we sit, at the end of time, together, from two entirely different worlds. We are at peace.