A mostrar mensagens de 2012

my new ela

underneath the sky of mother-of-pearl
no more need to
close my eyes and
drive over cliff
for this is right.
this is right.I stand upright on this big bright ball
I do what I do
love whom I love
and that is you.
in love with life.
so short.go

inside out

we plunge into each other's eyes
and live in here
making everything right
our souls the world

winter dream

the virginal field of white flows up into
the whiteness of no sky

when a sudden speck of black
becomes a deer
becomes a tear
from deep within a dream

your postcard was the silent world now
through which we drove,
my heart white with
the hum of love

big bang

after everyone died along with her
after all caved in in the end
the year turned inside again
and the light withdrew

into here

into this warm core of
passion where you and I
have been creating a new
universe for everyone to live in


as I drive aimlessly along the late october coast under a dreamtime sky, I finally see that there are three ways
to settle this:

let her go - but she just won’t. so fuck myself and drown her with me – look love, I drive hands-free at 110 mph!
accept her and live among ghosts forever.
give myself to you.
the choice is easy. I won’t drive over the cliff.
take my hand.

close quarters

no, I have not forgotten nor am I forgetting, but she lives in dreamtime now - too far away for a phone call.
as for me, I've found shelter from the cold, and as I ponder all my impossible pasts
and possible futures, I mostly hope I will live
a little longer.

this is what you become
when you've lived at close quarters with death

outono peruano

o ar é de ardósia
coberta de giz
que escorre
traçados cris de calor
neste terrário hermético
onde brotam orquídeas carnudas
e um vaporoso cio
no substrato do nosso

love & hope

all conveivable tomorrows
burn their bright spears
into right now right here

how to disentangle
love and hopes?


I write prologues no longer,
but epilogues to grapes and tides

and honk the horn as I drive
across the horizon of the day after


here you are, in my car so perfectly yourself so perfectly you so perfectly next to me at the wheel, where I overlap her ghost and have become perfectly she. freedom is indeed a concise ache for it implies nothingness & free fall, driving with no brakes through the black hole in the sunset-bleed sky into the darkening ocean. I roam the world over the cliff

summer's end

amidst the late-summer hills,
at the still heart of the
sunlit bougainvillea cottage,
we kiss until we are one
on the old kitchen table
in the cool shade
and the pantry smell of
ripe apples.

hold still, as
She becomes you
and You becomes she
and moves on
to a world of her own.

it is alright now
we've become We

I, abraham

the river narrows into a           sombre still pool in the black cave of
ancient drawings,
unforgettable horrors,
world-ends cast in rock,
and the stale air of doom
-- why do you do this?, she asks --
to be sightless and
hide from these weathers:
I am more familiar
with desolation and
a ghost as vast as history.
what must I sacrifice
so I may roam the world again?

Photo Historas de Cronopios

bed of roses

it all seems so easy
our hearts flow effortlessly
until we poke a silly joke
into an open wound
and discover the mind-numbing power
we have over each other


of course it is early
of course I have to make a conscious effort
not to plug her in the hole in my heart
not to confound her with ghosts
not to erase her own life that I love so much
of course it is early

the alternative though is sheer
losing her
losing myself


in this first weather of so many to come,
her radiant face pervades
the liquid orange light
inside the warmth of our sphere of
astounding wonder and skin aglow.

around our sanctuary of glass
dragonflies scuttle
across the humming lake,
scouring the hours, while time
slows down until we are
entrapped, immovable
in its golden treacle.

all was new
when we emerged at dawn



under the hot grey sky
           casting microwave radiation.

       at the dark heart
       of the jungle.

     deep down
     in the ravine.

we locked ourselves away
in the sanctuary by the blackest pool –

no food, no sleep, no water, no light

– and buried our teeth in each other’s shoulders
engulfed in the fluids of our souls
until we became
a single steaming ghost
never to let go


ever more rarely now
you join me in the tomb that I guard
to shed a tear with me
for old times' sake,
oh my roadside companion family
of all these years through
which we were there for each other.

but at the end of the day
you always return
to the homes that you still have
of unsevered lives
where every hour and every day
have not been amputated.

you throw stones at me now,
bible-loads of them,
because I will no longer guard this tomb
for all the pay I get is the deadly silence
after the daytime crowd is gone,
and I soak your popcorn in my tears.

we were eight at first, then briefly seven.
count me out as well now, for this
boat, this house, this no-more tomb,
has risen anchors.

the doors are open, the river is wide

the day after

the dark wild waters of passion and despair
had flushed my soul -
the earthquake of my rites was over.

I woke up in a canoe, gently swaying on the river
and my mourning had changed to Indian white.

sore with a pleasant post-fever ache, I sat up
and inspected the shifted landscape,
the unknown walls on the far bank,
and in the clear distance the canyon opened up
to an uncharted land,
with brand-new mountain ranges
and a sky promising a myriad new weathers.

you were headstrong in life,
you are headstrong even now,
my beloved ghost.
but it is beside me that you travel now.

I picked up the paddles and began to row.

withdrawal symptoms

the river sat the sun on me and spat me out again, and yesterday hurts so much today. I wanted to give her my world in my open palms, share all that I know, all that I have, all that I am, but none of it is mine alone (should I add 'yet', as an unlikely flourish of hope? in my dream last night, drunk with passion for her, I reversed the car into a wall. your ghost was furious at the collateral damage.)
today all is silent again, gone her voice lips eyes, and my river flows above the land, in all its untouchable dark glory. so I darken myself to jump into the black sky.

I travel light, I travel with a ghost

the colour of the river

on this day today, I performed all the rites in all the places of rituals, to be able to let go of her, and with her my so recently acquired hope, and my daughter’s hopes. it hurts to the bone to relinquish her sheer exquisiteness, and all that we might become.

but you see, the reptile brain is but a blind predator, so I must drink of this black river and my darker tears until the night fills me completely, until the sun can rise in me one day. not now. there is much darkness to drink still.

so I ate from the black berries at the altar of farewells, and stole the only, the sweetest kiss. her smile hid her eyes and she said, I knew. I turned and went away, as all tomorrows faded into a liquid golden shadow against the summer's end sunset and the darkening green hills.

and as I leaned my screaming head against the mossy wall, the village idiot walked past me and said, bon voyage. indeed. both back into our solitudes. back in black with the ghost that I know how to love without my r…

today is not tomorrow

I wish there were a ritual
to let the past take flight
so these moments of silence
won't pierce me anymore

let go, the river says
and swim on,
for I can hold all your tears

so my tears become
one with the river
as all that I was
falls far behind

stage V - crossing the river

after months in the desert
where your heart turned into a
leathery mummy,
the river lies before you now.

and in you go, headlong
into the dizzying rapids,
you grow new arms and fins
while cortex learns and
reptile brain craves
one pulling forward to the unseen land across
and the other down to stranger pleasures,
the wetness of willing lips

whether I make it or not,
tomorrow is beginning to look
like a good place to be again


dança delicada, costas com costas
adivinhamos apenas o pulso do parceiro
contra o nosso coração, para
contrariar a crescente força centrífuga

encosto a cabeça na tua
colo a mente à tua
para, cautelosamente, nos
face com face, lábios com lábios

boy in a bubble

the white-hot air blinds, motionless, and the village is a ghost town. so here I stand in the graveyard, my hands scented with the rich aroma of the thyme that we planted on your grave. below me in the shimmering land, the fog horn bellows a far-away roar as the mist rolls into the Lisbon bay. I like to believe that you are now in the pine tree next to the grave, and as always, I lean my ear to the bark to hear the earth talk from underneath and the wind from above. today there is no wind, so the earth speaks louder, in underground streams, shifting slabs of rock, the faint cracking of crystal and granite.

so what was it like? what is it like?

hiroshima, ground zero. annihilation. the entire skin peels off, until you’re raw flesh. for weeks on end, you are an open wound, exposed to the piercing air and sun, the arrowheads of rain and hail. the pain is constant. and then you’re dropped into a pool of caustic bleach.

you are nothing but pain, and this goes on, unbearably.

but as time …

little boys

on my first day of school, there was a girl. I was too young to pay any attention to girls per se, but what mattered was that her name was Monica. as it happens, I had had dreams about being in love with a girl called Monica ever since I was five, so I was certain that this must be her. on the second day of school, I approached her and, blushing violently, offered her my favourite blue and transparent glass elephant (which I thought looked rather stately and well up to the occasion), wrapped in an infantile attempt at a love poem. the girl, taller than me, and surrounded by her girlfriends, unwrapped my beloved treasure, read my scribbled lines, laughed wickedly and flung the elephant onto the schoolyard tarmac. blue and transparent glass shards flew in all directions. while seemingly unimportant, this brief event shaped my approach to the female gender forever.

but back now to what matters.

the last time

half a year ago to the day
was the last time
I saw you alive

there was a last time
you ate with delight.
a last time
you laughed at the sun.
a last time
you were on the beach.
a last time
you were in Africa.
a last time
that we danced.
a last time
we made love.

on the 12th of february,
the last thing I said to you


I love you

lillet blanc

a thousand years ago
we fenced words
until we giggled
the scallops off our plates,
until they wriggled away from
under the table

the scallops have grown since
into full-blown biotopes

waiting for life

once upon a time, a sorceress came upon a wounded, old lion lying in the shade of a baobab tree not far from her village. the lion's entire sault had been killed by hunters, and he was the last survivor. in her kindness, the sorceress decided to help the lonely beast, but fearing his nature, she kept at a safe distance, using only her words of magic to try and heal him. as the days and weeks went by, she grew fond of the lion, and used ever more powerful spells to save him, hoping one day they would become best friends. spring and summer came and went, and as the beast was becoming stronger, the sorceress was becoming braver. so one morning in early autumn, she left her village and approached the old tree, her mind set on caressing the lion at last. but the spot under the tree was empty. the lion had moved on to seek someone to caress.

thank you for pushing me beyond the navel

it is changing. I am changing. a weekend's worth of potting flowers, weeding the lawn, recording new music, cooking, reading sophists, and unexpected smiles. the world is becoming mine.

no, this doesn't cover it all, but I'm ready for myself. this house is clean.


I’ve exhausted the words that I
write on your mirror,
and shrivel away into dry brown hide
within my house which is my tomb
under the roaring sun
and the harsh horizons.

when the full moon floods
the barren badlands
I shall retreat at last
into my cold sarcophagus,

in stasis suspended for
another thousand years,
till the water inverts its song

and finds me


for what is life but the
shabbiest reflection
of a perfect poem?

in waves

imagine, if you will, a horror movie
of the truly terrifying sort.
something evil is about to happen,
and eventually it does.
but your fear does not subside
for you're not even half-way through the movie,
and each new wave of sheer panic is going to be worse.

stretch this movie over months and years.

time is not a healer.
it grates the core of your soul
down to a hollow depression,
that darkens, deepens you forever.

a navel-gazer's fairy tale

once upon a time, a miserable sod of a widower was made to retreat into his navel.

in there he was spied upon from afar by a fairy whom he spied upon, for how else would he know? that lived safe and cosy inside her own belly button, from whence - incapable of fathoming his pain - she ranted and bellowed, proclaiming her museum of navel history to be the best attraction in town. should she have known how much he hated navels?

to be continued


reboot complete.

I've taken off the ring.
yes, it hurt like hell
but it's time to
be happy without you

and I can simply put it on again
if I need to be


is it a window or a mirror?
he reached out in search of warm skin

3 am

full moon in the lemon tree
and a warm wind travels in the
woods above the house

hush. it is the world’s darkest hour:
every soul is closest to death now

alive in this here web

in my hawaiian shirt
and my tacky shades
I stand motionless
beneath the immaculate sky
inhale the warm cerulean air
at the core of the field of wheat

freedom, you see, is
a concise ache
just below the diaphragm

the exquisite lightness of impossiblity

sudden crystalline bliss -
whispers in white
within you


drops now of crisp snow
within me

half-time decay

one might think that the constant pain
should dull the heart. not mine.
it ebbs and flows. here and now:

half-time - I can peer out again
through the window pain
or perhaps the pane is gone for good
to end this hurtful cycle and
decay quietly into my half-life

I wonder what's out there

      take a handful of seeds,
      a mouthful of dirt,
      lie down and become a garden


how, oh how

soon, oh soon,
the heat will have turned
mud into clay
and baked all sadness all emotion
out of me

so I invert all my pores
and seek refuge in someone else’s
cascade of wonderous words
hot cold


as you all are all saying: I should be fine now.
no, it’s just begun - this hurts now.

but yes, there’s an upside: I chuck out what I never liked
and cook the stuff that you never liked

cancer excised

the black curtain rose
after a handful of words -
'successfully excised'

I am clean I am blessed
for I will live a little longer

so the time has come
for the heart to set off
on its long journey of healing
and learn to rejoice in
the soothing solitude
underneath the lemon tree
that is mine now

I bade you farewell


anything would do
anyone would do
to fix the hole in my heart

what I know now:
it'll have to heal by itself

T plus 120

wake up coffee cigarette
check skin check garden check email
no thought of you until
walk to grave pain cigarette
dance with you
dance with you follow you beyond

someone says
fuck the first 6 months


what a miserable sod...

spot-on, gentlemen, spot-on.
you see, two years ago to the day
was the happiest day in our life.

spot off.

they got their money back, so that's ok

so deafening at first,
your death bell's toll
is receding at last
into the close-by hills

but no - the echo
bounces back from
an infinity of mundane objects
until my soul rings like a
Tibetan prayer bowl
rendering what's worldly frivolous

I love not, desire no one
no room now for the
feedback loop
of subsconsciousness

oh my love, my only love -
could I only write about anything else,
but the damage is done,
and the crowd shoves in to see
nine lives gone at once.

I'm yearning for a friend


new data over old data
as life moves on

at least while it does,
for will I join you in the grave
sooner or later?
later would be fine
so I can become myself

in the meantime, a flower
would be fine

earthquake weather

the distant sky above
is filthy like mud

this must be the lowest point
in-between this world of hills
for whichever way I turn
I always roll back
until I don't move again.

so spit in your palms
and rub your hands -
there's work to be done, old man

done thinking

lightning’s split the thinking tree in three

to think about
nothing to decide


hollow empty quiet –
this house in the rain

where you will never know
that, yes, I'll be driving
the damn mercedes
any day now

where you talk to me no more
when I report
the 2nd orange slice
of cancer
they’ve cut
out of me.

[no, it won’t get me]

hollow empty impassive –
these pointless underwater days

where you hear me no more
as I fight back sadness
like an urge to retch
until only a numb, deep pain
in my gut remains.

I miss you
in these silent days.

the key is gone

slow learner

I think I have to rephrase: you said não sei viver sem ti, e agora vais ter de viver sem mim - I don’t know how to live without you

I don’t. what we did together has become nothing now, and I sit and stare


you brainless idiot, you said. you can't cross the street without falling in love. rightly so. but now it's like this:

a gorgeous-looking widow next in line in her early 40s gave me her discount coupons at the supermarket today. true, I could not help but size her up (but I do not pride myself of it): short and sexily plump, stylishly-trimmed black hair, off-beat black gipsy clothes, a sort of deeply sad serious well-to-do NY-type left-wing latina intellectual. breath-takingly sexy. then, bursting through our common gloom, she offered me the cutest of smiles and 18 euros' worth of coupons. off-beat widower, meet off-beat widow. but why on earth do I think I have to fill the giant hole that you left? I don't. it's part of me now. I returned as dark a smile as I could muster, and never looked back.

wrong key.


the sun breaks through the gloom
and I recall being awoken rudely
by björk singing 'all is full of love' -
how much ecstasy must it take to be that silly?

I hope the sky will clamp shut soon again
and wipe that idiotic bliss from my face

any key, as long it's minor


you called your cat oliver twist,
and he’s an orphan all over again –
like me, he only loved you
and loves no one now.

so everything’s changed, just

is as it was before
hasn’t changed

not too bad for a start.
press any key

revolution day

the cinemas are packed
screaming kids
yelling parents
popcorn revolves

I pretend all is well
no carnations required
for this renewal,
a mildly pleasing
fuck-you-all feeling

I managed today
without you:
a way up through
the lemontree leaves
and into the rain

not bad for a beginning


I can't live without you, and now you'll have to live without me.
your words to me a few days before you died alone at midnight.

I don’t know what music I like now, what books,
what movies, what people, what weather
I don’t even know what to wear now

it seems we defined each other,
and your death has

without you, I'm becoming a ghost

so how does it feel to be on your own?

my essence
has been distilled now:
all I feel is her.
just that she is no more.

I know it’s profoundly wrong,
but my soul has set
its own course
into the heart of the sun.

words alone
won't change this any longer.

so in the end,
one is nothing now,
and the others
have been crushed
in their own ways.

at the end of the spiral
there's nothing.

words alone

same dark place, different dark corner

I read what you say,
and am stunned at the sad irony.

but despite all our pain,
we won't do anymore -

time for me to move on
and live alone in the open

resolution (the new action hero)

your grave is complete now. our grave. for I will join you there. sooner rather than later, I expect. people say one day I will feel hopeful again. not that I discredit them, but what point is there in hope? hope that something glorious will happen again, they say. Well, hope my arse, I’ve had all the glory I wanted. ever needed. so I’ll focus now on becoming a thoroughly grumpy, intolerant old man. sarcasm rather than irony. I’ll tend to the garden that you created, cantankerously making it mine. I used to be blindly trustful – no more of that nonsense. I’ll become

the guard

lucky guy

last night,
we danced
and I would not let you

   I've been in love
   six times in my life.

   I have loved
   only once,
   and that took me 23 years to learn.

   in all likeliness
   I shan't love again,
   for there won't be time now
   to absorb anyone else's sum.

   I am lucky
   to have loved

we danced

today's weather: heavenless

I could. I can now.
anything I want.

but all is
culinary.musical.literary.amorous limbo

only the words
on which I thrive.

I mustn't move.

amidst the oceanwide void
that I must populate now



food & wine & sun-drunk laughter
the fourteen of us,
tightly knit,
amidst the myriad of flowers
you planted.

in heaven with you.

relearning how to sleep alone

sanity check:
everything's still as in
my nightcap photo album
except that all has lost its value.
lights off. dull pain.

vivid dream
something terrible is going to happen.
awake: it's happened already.

vivid dream
you are calling me,
submerge me in your living fragrance.

awake: the bed is cold and empty.
I hold your pillow.

vivid dream
you cut the straps that held a piano,
I visit the hospital all over again.
awake: dr faustus (p. 55) & st. augustine (untouched)
on your bedside table.
glad the cats are with me.

vivid dream
awake: half my pillow is wet.
sweat. tears.

awake: sanity check.
kitchen. garden. coffee. cigarette.


back in black

out of the black and into the blue

first day no black
in seven weeks

I feel profoundly wrong.


if I get it right,
I got it wrong.

blind me.
can I see you?

[black stitched on white:
door closed.]

it's looking like a beautiful day

only ten weeks ago,
you were driving our car,
cosy in your rocket.

your sunlit profile
to my left
smiled and we sang the words
of the last song
of our last hope.

now I am driving
upside down
and you're not here to
hold me
as I hit the world
full on.
with no brakes.
off course.

I'm grateful for the
driving instructor
to my right
even though he's even
more melancholy than I

of course it would all be easier
if I believed in a soul.
of course.


after the titanic sank
I swam for six weeks
against the ice-cold sea

was battered at last
against a rock,

so here I squat now
growing a beard of icicles in the storm
that howls across the barren islet,
and desperately labour
to obliterate the three kinds of grief -
for those who have drowned,
for those who live,
and for myself.

while far behind me,
washed up on the shoreline,
all that I once loved
is decaying now,
waiting to be discarded for good:

  my case with the music in it
  my book with the words in it
  my trunk with the recipes in it
  my soul with all that I felt

so I start anew now
in the frozen wasteland
for time is

seemingly endless

last tomorrows

last sunbeam last cigarette last eagle’s soar last kiss last steps last smile last breath last thought

but still

your clothes have no owner
your books
your cushion

the you in me
needs them still

a long finish

you were the soil from which I drew
you were the rain that kept me alive
you were the sun that lit my leaves
you were the cask in which I aged

the soil is barren now
it does not rain
and the sun is black

only the eagle remains

my new world

life erupts in a thousand colours
yellow green perfume of lilac
into the living glare of sunlight
blessing our shortcomings —

seen from behind
my defensive carapace of
black clothing
relegated I am
to the geriatric darkness
of working through bereavement

you do not see me here.
you don’t even have eyes anymore

I hope you don’t mind
that I put down in words
how wonderful life was
while you were in the world

there's a light over at the frankenstein's place

The waitress looks like David Gilmore. TV:
'George Clooney is in Sudan protesting against violence'
Yeah right, the guy says at the next table. Breaking news, ay?
'Twelve children shot dead in Palestine'. So my kind of kind of news, innit?As if. When’s football on?
Another bloke, late 50s, gelled hair, checkered shirt put on by wife:
I was alone at home till half past three - missuz was at a corpse's viewing. Neat, innit?
First bloke: Yeah right... I bet she was having fun somewhere else.

Stage 4: ANGER

crime scene, revisited

T -20     the chemo room
           where your last treatment wasn’t completed

T -19     the hospital
           where you lay in the east wing

T -6      the gloomy pit under the staircase
          where we sat, and you smoked the last cigarette of your life

T -4       the bed
           where we left our last battleships unfinished
                 you never saw my ships. I saw yours after you died

T +8hs   the meal room
          where my world was shattered

T +31    back in the sun
          that is still black

perfect blue

hot breeze in pine tree
by your grave
a handful of freesias wilt
on a lump of earth

my cigarette wet with pain
while fierce first spring sun
peels away the skin from my skull
when the axis spins:

high above in the perfect blue
the three eagles you loved
cry Freedom
and pierce my mind with joy

I’m ready for nothing yet

nothing to regret

when we were children again
trembling in fearful
amazement of each other,
in the sun-specked shade
of the Thinking Tree.

your skin a book
of silent pearls -
trapped in a
golden sphere
of time


you are dead.
death-blow in the
solar plexus of this world.

you are dead.
the choir has stopped.

‘how is Inês, by the way…?’

she is dead.
blew the world to shards.
I tread the broken stone
of this heart this life

‘I can’t live without you,
now you will have to live without me’,
with the shard of a soul.
you saw it before you.

you are dead.
the chair where you sat, the smiles you smiled:
still lifes now. naturezas mortas.

today I ate the last meal
that you made with your hands,
six weeks ago. you were alive.
now you are dead.

I love you, and you’ll never love me back again
so I’m tying up the loose ends now
so no question shall remain
so to ready my world
for the silence to come.

you are dead now:
I must live without you
for such a long time to come.

your scent still fills the room.
did you know
it would hurt like this?

you are dead.

I live on
in the unloving

the stone stands still

from a hole the size of you
I knit myself back into the distant light
through a thousand loose ends

into my very first new cycle:
waiting to reboot


half carcass
bleeding out at the slaughterhouse

the wound too wide
to stop the haemorrhage

we hoped it wasn't a metaphor

during the last week of your life
you said (and kept us hoping):

when I get out of here
I want to swim in a large calm pool of warm water.

get my swimming suit ready

we made plans

honeydew melon

arguably, Santini makes the best ice cream in Portugal. on Friday, the 10th of February 2012, I went to Lisbon to register at last the copyright for the album I wrote and made for you, Inês. on my way to Rossio station, I decided I’d buy you your favourite ice cream: Santini’s honeydew melon. I bought a half-litre styrofoam box, which would keep the ice cream for an hour. I caught a taxi and instructed the driver to rush to the hospital, for I didn’t know how much longer you’d be alive. the driver understood, and screeched and honked us across Lisbon traffic, and then like a mad bullet down the motorway. in under 20 minutes, he got me to the hospital, where I ran down the endless, freezing hallway towards your ward, your bed no. 12. and found you asleep. alive. the bed not nightmarishly empty. I awoke you with a dash of honeydew melon, and you sucked on it, breathed it in, a sunbeam in your fading mind. my tears blended in with the flavour. there was so little of you then. you never …

what you taught us

        (the light shone on me
        between the preserved foods section
        and the fresh fish counter.
        bling. nonetheless real.

   through all the pain and all the sorrow
through knowing that I’ll have to live

             w i t h o u t   y o u

   for a score of years,
   I see this now:

  the time is here
  to master my tomorrows
  to become my masterpiece
  to determine my freedom.

when tonight's night falls
I shall look up
at                      Orion & Mars
and shape my future

you always said so,
I could always've done this.

I am the power


without you.

two words that hurt me to the bone


you were my country
you were my religion
now you're in the grave
where I shall lie too

and one day our atoms will recombine
into a new possibility

today you said:

"I can't live without you, and now you 'll have to live without me"



two worlds

outside the window
the world is in love
with its carousel of
rain: light: moss: clover

while inside the globe
of our air-tight world,
the red hot wire of
pain punctuates

my enclosed mind soars
ten miles high:
the 737's gentle drone:
the unread book:
water twinkle in glass:
sky outside fade into: