Prompt: A hobbit sat on a mossy stone, his small figure wrapped in a well-worn waistcoat of deep green, embroidered with brass buttons that caught the fading light.
In his hands, he cradled a finely carved pipe, its long stem curling like a willow branch. With practiced ease, he packed it full of aromatic pipeweed, its earthy scent mingling with the crisp, golden air of early autumn. From his waistcoat pocket, he drew a match, striking it against a small rock with a sharp snap. The flame danced for a moment before he cupped it against the pipe's bowl, drawing deep until the embers glowed like a tiny hearth.
He exhaled slowly, sending a plume of silver smoke curling upwards, its spirals twisting and twining like lazy rivers in the sky. The hobbit's round face softened into contentment, his bright eyes half-lidded as he gazed out over the quiet meadows and the winding dirt paths that led to home.
The smoke rose, drifting with the evening breeze, carrying with it the rich, earthy scent of Old Toby—a pipeweed as fine as any in the Four Farthings. He traced the shapes in the smoke with his finger, watching as they shifted and faded, like memories slipping through the fingers of time.
As twilight deepened, fireflies began to wink in the grass, their golden lights reflecting in the hobbit's eyes. He leaned back against the oak, his bare feet nestled in the cool earth, savoring each puff of his pipe as though it were a song only he could hear.
In that quiet moment, surrounded by the simple beauty of the Shire, he felt the world slow, the worries of the day fading into the distance like the last wisp of smoke that curled into the star-dappled sky.
Prompt: A hobbit sat on a mossy stone, his small figure wrapped in a well-worn waistcoat of deep green, embroidered with brass buttons that caught the fading light.
In his hands, he cradled a finely carved pipe, its long stem curling like a willow branch. With practiced ease, he packed it full of aromatic pipeweed, its earthy scent mingling with the crisp, golden air of early autumn. From his waistcoat pocket, he drew a match, striking it against a small rock with a sharp snap. The flame danced for a moment before he cupped it against the pipe's bowl, drawing deep until the embers glowed like a tiny hearth.
He exhaled slowly, sending a plume of silver smoke curling upwards, its spirals twisting and twining like lazy rivers in the sky. The hobbit's round face softened into contentment, his bright eyes half-lidded as he gazed out over the quiet meadows and the winding dirt paths that led to home.
The smoke rose, drifting with the evening breeze, carrying with it the rich, earthy scent of Old Toby—a pipeweed as fine as any in the Four Farthings. He traced the shapes in the smoke with his finger, watching as they shifted and faded, like memories slipping through the fingers of time.
As twilight deepened, fireflies began to wink in the grass, their golden lights reflecting in the hobbit's eyes. He leaned back against the oak, his bare feet nestled in the cool earth, savoring each puff of his pipe as though it were a song only he could hear.
In that quiet moment, surrounded by the simple beauty of the Shire, he felt the world slow, the worries of the day fading into the distance like the last wisp of smoke that curled into the star-dappled sky.
Would you like to report this Dream as inappropriate?
Prompt:
A hobbit sat on a mossy stone, his small figure wrapped in a well-worn waistcoat of deep green, embroidered with brass buttons that caught the fading light.
In his hands, he cradled a finely carved pipe, its long stem curling like a willow branch. With practiced ease, he packed it full of aromatic pipeweed, its earthy scent mingling with the crisp, golden air of early autumn. From his waistcoat pocket, he drew a match, striking it against a small rock with a sharp snap. The flame danced for a moment before he cupped it against the pipe's bowl, drawing deep until the embers glowed like a tiny hearth.
He exhaled slowly, sending a plume of silver smoke curling upwards, its spirals twisting and twining like lazy rivers in the sky. The hobbit's round face softened into contentment, his bright eyes half-lidded as he gazed out over the quiet meadows and the winding dirt paths that led to home.
The smoke rose, drifting with the evening breeze, carrying with it the rich, earthy scent of Old Toby—a pipeweed as fine as any in the Four Farthings. He traced the shapes in the smoke with his finger, watching as they shifted and faded, like memories slipping through the fingers of time.
As twilight deepened, fireflies began to wink in the grass, their golden lights reflecting in the hobbit's eyes. He leaned back against the oak, his bare feet nestled in the cool earth, savoring each puff of his pipe as though it were a song only he could hear.
In that quiet moment, surrounded by the simple beauty of the Shire, he felt the world slow, the worries of the day fading into the distance like the last wisp of smoke that curled into the star-dappled sky.
Modifiers:
extremely detailed
fantasy
oil on canvas
beautiful
imperial colors
close up
matte background
Van Gogh
beautiful
fantasy
oil on canvas
extremely detailed
fantasy
beautiful
fantasy
Dream Level: is increased each time when you "Go Deeper" into the dream. Each new level is harder to achieve and
takes more iterations than the one before.
Rare Deep Dream: is any dream which went deeper than level 6.
Deep Dream
You cannot go deeper into someone else's dream. You must create your own.
Deep Dream
Currently going deeper is available only for Deep Dreams.
Artist
