|Espresso, as Mr. Spressos|
Good Evening, Everybun!
"On a night like this, even the mosquitos stay grounded, Agent Hoomin. What are you doing here, anyway? I know, I know, the urge to blend in with 'the normal' is too much sometimes," said Mr. Spressos.
The hoomin listened, pretending not to see him and nodded. He kept fanning himself with the latest, folded broadsheet of headlines. It didn't help. The hoomin wanted to go on about the heat, the wild ducks sweltering in the shade with their beaks open. He wanted to tell Mr. Spressos about this funny thing he noticed. The hotter it gets, the concentration of despair rises in the air, and it freezes hope out every breath. Flakes of the soul precipitate out of every exhalation, and the thoughts of the future turn into ash. But he didn't.
"Did you hear about the cloud of dust from the desert heading our way? What's it made of, I mean, really?" asked the hoomin.
Good night and good luck
Hoomins just seem to need to cause trubble ...
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