Hot Chills

A head cold in December and the sun is brilliantly high pinned to a sky-blue sky. He needs an image for this distressed kind of joy, a banana shaped image full of starch and potassium, one with yellow prehensile lips. He sticks a wet nose out of the garden door. The squirrels are confused, small birds hop around as if they had just won the lottery. He needs a significant sniff, one that suggests apathy and elation in one snotty sound. Shrugging, he retreats to a laptop to key in mixed feelings. Google notifies, that that page - Cannot Not Found.