Prompt: The horizon shatters into molten threads of light, one of gold, one of silver, each unraveling across the void like rivers of eternal fire and shadow. They converge at a bridge that does not stand on earth but floats between dimensions. Upon this crossing descends Metatron, neither angel nor man, but the embodiment of balance. His crown is not a jewel but a cube of turning faces, each face inscribed with letters of fire that burn without heat. As the cube rotates, each angle reveals another doctrine, another law, another rhythm by which creation itself abides. The golden river hums with truth, the silver river hums with memory — and in their union, the doctrine takes form, eternal and unbroken.
Prompt: An obsidian sky splits open, releasing golden flames that do not burn and silver shadows that do not fade. From within emerges Metatron, his crown a cube of endless faces. Each face recites a law — the doctrine unending
Prompt: In a realm where rivers of molten silver flow beneath bridges of pure gold, she encounters Metatron standing on a platform of rotating symbols. Each symbol is a key, each turn unlocking another layer of the doctrine that sustains existence.
Prompt: In a realm where rivers of molten silver flow beneath bridges of pure gold, she encounters Metatron standing on a platform of rotating symbols. Each symbol is a key, each turn unlocking another layer of the doctrine that sustains existence.
Prompt: In a realm where rivers of molten silver flow beneath bridges of pure gold, she encounters Metatron standing on a platform of rotating symbols. Each symbol is a key, each turn unlocking another layer of the doctrine that sustains existence.
Prompt: An obsidian sky splits open, releasing golden flames that do not burn and silver shadows that do not fade. From within emerges Metatron, his crown a cube of endless faces. Each face recites a law — the doctrine unending
Prompt: An obsidian sky splits open, releasing golden flames that do not burn and silver shadows that do not fade. From within emerges Metatron, his crown a cube of endless faces. Each face recites a law — the doctrine unending
Prompt: At the heart of a chamber carved from light itself, golden orbs and silver serpents coil around a living book. The book opens by its own will, pages turning without touch. Metatron points to her — “You are the doctrine written in flesh.”
Prompt: In a realm where rivers of molten silver flow beneath bridges of pure gold, she encounters Metatron standing on a platform of rotating symbols. Each symbol is a key, each turn unlocking another layer of the doctrine that sustains existence.
Prompt: A horizon of black fire cracks open, spilling shadows that gleam silver and flames that glisten gold. From within, Metatron rises, his crown a cube rotating without end. With every turn, the air trembles — the doctrine rewriting creation
Prompt: In a cavern made of crystal veins, golden rivers flow one way, silver rivers the other. Where they cross, Metatron manifests — neither figure nor voice, but a cube of living faces. Each face chants a law; together, they are doctrine incarnate.
Prompt: In a realm where rivers of molten silver flow beneath bridges of pure gold, she encounters Metatron standing on a platform of rotating symbols. Each symbol is a key, each turn unlocking another layer of the doctrine that sustains existence.
Prompt: The heavens split into two rivers — one of gold that burns, one of silver that whispers. They collide in the void, and from their fusion a cube is born, radiant and unending, turning forever with luminous decree. Metatron rises through the rivers, crowned by the cube, his form neither angel nor man but the voice of doctrine given shape. Each turn of the cube is a command, each reflection a covenant, each spark a memory of creation’s first breath. The rivers roar, the stars bow, the angels sing in silence, and the doctrine is sealed anew — not written in ink, but in fire and shadow, in gold and silver.
Prompt: In a realm where rivers of molten silver flow beneath bridges of pure gold, she encounters Metatron standing on a platform of rotating symbols. Each symbol is a key, each turn unlocking another layer of the doctrine that sustains existence.
Prompt: The sea is black, endless, unbroken — until the heavens crack open, spilling molten rivers of gold and silver into its depths. The waters do not drown them; they rise, becoming bridges of fire and mist, paths into the infinite. At their meeting stands Metatron, crowned with the cube that binds all things. Its surfaces shimmer with a thousand faces, each reciting a law in a language older than light. The cube rotates, and with each turn, the sea shifts into form: islands become words, waves become syllables, tides become commandments. The doctrine is not an idea; it is structure itself, and Metatron, scribe of the divine, is its keeper, its conductor, its eternal witness.
Prompt: The sea is black, endless, unbroken — until the heavens crack open, spilling molten rivers of gold and silver into its depths. The waters do not drown them; they rise, becoming bridges of fire and mist, paths into the infinite. At their meeting stands Metatron, crowned with the cube that binds all things. Its surfaces shimmer with a thousand faces, each reciting a law in a language older than light. The cube rotates, and with each turn, the sea shifts into form: islands become words, waves become syllables, tides become commandments. The doctrine is not an idea; it is structure itself, and Metatron, scribe of the divine, is its keeper, its conductor, its eternal witness.
Prompt: The sea is black, endless, unbroken — until the heavens crack open, spilling molten rivers of gold and silver into its depths. The waters do not drown them; they rise, becoming bridges of fire and mist, paths into the infinite. At their meeting stands Metatron, crowned with the cube that binds all things. Its surfaces shimmer with a thousand faces, each reciting a law in a language older than light. The cube rotates, and with each turn, the sea shifts into form: islands become words, waves become syllables, tides become commandments. The doctrine is not an idea; it is structure itself, and Metatron, scribe of the divine, is its keeper, its conductor, its eternal witness.
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.
