The Voice That Welcomed Me Home (autobiographical dream)

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1
  • Emiliano Girina's avatar Artist
    Emiliano G...
  • DDG Model
    ChatGPT 2
  • Mode
    Pro
  • Access
    Public
  • Created
    1d ago
  • Try Try style

Prompt

Modern dark seinen anime illustration, gothic, razor-sharp confident ink linework, intricate hair and fur strands, sharp black cel shading. Palette of silver-white, ash grey, charcoal and near-black, with the soft warmth of champagne and pale rose in the gown and a few restrained accents of pale violet and muted crimson. Melancholic, nostalgic, tender mood of remembrance, quiet and dreamlike. Vertical 3:4 full-body composition, small white margin around the scene. Pure white background fading into a pale grey mist, no other scenery. On the left, a simple weathered grey memorial stone with a rounded top, small cracks and a few patches of moss; on its face, clearly carved and legible in elegant engraved serif capitals, the name "PULCE" and below it, in smaller carved script, "In Memoriam". Tied around the upper corner of the stone, a narrow black silk ribbon with a small bow, its long ends hanging down the side of the stone and gently curling in the air; on one hanging end, the small elegant handwritten signature "Milo 307º 2026 CE" in fine silver-white calligraphy, crisp, legible and fully inside the image. No other signature or text anywhere. Subject: a dreamlike, ethereal young adult Mediterranean woman, soft olive-toned pale complexion with a cool silvery tint, soft rounded face, delicate features, sitting on the grass and leaning gently against the memorial stone, knees drawn slightly to one side, head resting on her shoulder against the stone in a peaceful daydream. Eyes softly closed, long white lashes, lips gently closed with a faint pale violet tint. Expression serene, gentle, wistful. Hair: short layered pixie cut, very wavy and tousled, pure white with silver-grey shadows and a faint cyan reflection on the edges. Plump, rounded, fluffy white cat ears rising from her hair, soft and organic, the inner ear pale rose, one ear slightly drooping. A very large, extremely thick and bushy white cat tail, as voluminous as a fox tail, dense with soft wavy fur in layered tufts, curls in a wide arc around her legs and rests softly on the ground, its full rounded tip lying across the hem of her gown. Outfit: an elegant summer evening gown of flowing champagne and pale rose silk with delicate thin straps, its light skirt falling in soft folds and spreading over the grass and the base of the stone, the hem softly dissolving into white mist and drifting petals. Hands: one hand rests open in her lap, the other lies relaxed on the grass, fingers gently curled. Anatomically correct hands and feet. Around her and at the foot of the stone, a scattering of white lilies with dark pollen, a few petals wilting and turning grey, one lily resting in her open palm. A small overturned porcelain saucer lies in the grass beside her. Delicate white moths and faint glowing dust drift upward from her figure toward the top of the frame, like memories rising into the air. Lighting: soft high-key graphic light with deep black shadow masses only in the folds of the gown, under the stone, in the ribbon and in the hair. Gentle cyan rim light along her profile, ears and tail; warm faint glow on the silk. Mood: love, longing, innocence, remembrance; stillness, softness, silent nostalgia. No photorealism.

More about The Voice That Welcomed Me Home (autobiographical dream)

Pulce, In Memoriam (autobiographical dream)

The cat woman you see in this image is an allegorical figure. She is my beloved cat, Pulce.

I found her on my way home from a village festival: covered in parasites, starving, and in terrible condition. Her name, Pulce, means "flea" in Italian. She was deaf, and she was the sweetest creature I have ever known. Not a single day went by without her being the first thing I saw and heard when I came home from work: there she was, waiting for me, greeting me with her loud, unrestrained, gloriously off-key meow. She could not hear herself, so she never learned to be quiet. I would not have wanted her any other way.

Then a human being with a dark heart, full of cruelty and incivility, poisoned her.

In this dream she rests against her own tombstone, as if she had simply fallen asleep. The white lilies around her are beautiful and deadly, like the hand that took her from me. The black silk ribbon carries my name, because part of me is buried there with her. The moths rising from her figure are what remains: something light, something that refuses to stay in the ground.

You have already seen her in many of my dreams. You will see her again, for as long as I keep her memory alive.

Milo

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