Prompt: Between two rivers — one golden, one silver — she kneels upon a bridge made of pure sound. Metatron descends as a column of radiant letters, spiraling around her. “Doctrine is balance,” he intones, as the waters merge.
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: Between two rivers — one golden, one silver — she kneels upon a bridge made of pure sound. Metatron descends as a column of radiant letters, spiraling around her. “Doctrine is balance,” he intones, as the waters merge.
Prompt: In a temple without walls, stars hang like chandeliers of molten silver, and the air is heavy with golden mist. Metatron manifests as a body of countless eyes, each reflecting a different law. He is the doctrine made visible — the mirror of divine precision.
Prompt: She dreams beneath a tree whose leaves are pure gold and whose roots glisten with silver veins. At the trunk sits Metatron, the celestial scribe, inscribing every breath of creation into bark that glows. The doctrine is not read — it is absorbed into the soul.
Prompt: A cathedral of shattered moons drifts through the void, its spires cracked yet radiant with lingering light. Within its hollow nave, syllables of gold drip from unseen vaults, pooling as molten runes on the broken floor, while silver vapors coil through the fractured arches like sentient smoke. They gather above the altar, fusing into a cube that burns without heat, a crown without weight. Metatron rises beneath it, his form woven from equations, his gaze holding the gravity of stars. As the cube spins, it casts lattices of law across the ruins, binding the broken moons back into orbit. The cathedral hums, the void listens, and the doctrine breathes again, reborn from ruin into orde
Prompt: Beneath a sky split by revelation, she stands on a bridge made of sound. The wind speaks in equations, the clouds glow with memory. Metatron rises above the horizon, not as a god, but as the voice of divine structure. Enoch reborn — script of eternity made manifest.
Prompt: 1.
Within a vault of polished silver columns and golden lattices, she kneels as the air shimmers with coded light. Metatron descends in a robe woven from equations, each thread a doctrine of creation, each breath a spark that ignites the architecture of reality.
2.
Across a bridge of pure gold suspended in mist, she approaches a silver pedestal holding the Book of Life. The pages turn without touch, revealing her name in letters made of burning starlight. Metatron’s hand hovers above — blessing, sealing, remembering.
3.
In a hall where the floors are liquid silver and the walls are hammered gold, she finds the angelic architect. Metatron stands amidst rotating cubes and spheres, each inscribed with celestial law, each humming with the precision of eternal mathematics.
4.
She steps into a library of golden arches and silver shelves where books glow with living script. Metatron appears as a silhouette of perfect geometry, his voice shaping the doctrine of cause and consequence, carving reality in strokes of divine light.
5.
In the mountain’s heart, a chamber of molten gold and liquid silver beats like a living organ. From its center rises Metatron, holding a scroll that unravels across dimensions, revealing the doctrine of unity — the hidden blueprint of all creation.
6.
Beneath a sky of metallic constellations, the ground reflects like a mirror of liquid silver. Metatron walks toward her in perfect symmetry, each step a law, each gesture a prophecy. The doctrine is not spoken — it is engraved in the air itself.
7.
Inside a cathedral forged from gold filigree and silver veins, angelic choirs float in the air like crystal harmonies. Metatron, crowned with a halo of infinite polygons, extends a quill of light, ready to write her destiny into the eternal doctrine.
8.
She wanders through a labyrinth of golden corridors, each turn revealing silver mosaics of cosmic history. At the center waits Metatron, keeper of divine precision, holding the cube of creation — a perfect fusion of number, form, and sacred decree.
9.
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.
10.
Amid clouds woven from powdered gold and moonlit silver, she hears the whisper of Metatron. His words manifest as glowing diagrams in the air — the unspoken doctrine, the living formula, the architecture of eternity traced with perfect, deliberate hands.
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: A cathedral of shattered moons drifts through the void, its spires cracked yet radiant with lingering light. Within its hollow nave, syllables of gold drip from unseen vaults, pooling as molten runes on the broken floor, while silver vapors coil through the fractured arches like sentient smoke. They gather above the altar, fusing into a cube that burns without heat, a crown without weight. Metatron rises beneath it, his form woven from equations, his gaze holding the gravity of stars. As the cube spins, it casts lattices of law across the ruins, binding the broken moons back into orbit. The cathedral hums, the void listens, and the doctrine breathes again, reborn from ruin into orde
Prompt: Between two rivers — one golden, one silver — she kneels upon a bridge made of pure sound. Metatron descends as a column of radiant letters, spiraling around her. “Doctrine is balance,” he intones, as the waters merge.
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: 9.
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: Between two rivers — one golden, one silver — she kneels upon a bridge made of pure sound. Metatron descends as a column of radiant letters, spiraling around her. “Doctrine is balance,” he intones, as the waters merge.
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: She dreams beneath a tree whose leaves are pure gold and whose roots glisten with silver veins. At the trunk sits Metatron, the celestial scribe, inscribing every breath of creation into bark that glows. The doctrine is not read — it is absorbed into the soul.
Prompt: Between two endless oceans, one of silver fog, one of golden fire, she kneels upon a bridge made of chanting voices. From the depths emerges Metatron, his crown an infinite cube of faces. Each face intones a fragment of the unbroken doctrine.
Prompt: At the crossing of a golden river and a silver sea, she stands barefoot, the current whispering in two voices. Above, Metatron descends as a tower of shifting faces, each one reciting a law in unison. The waters merge — doctrine spoken as one.
Prompt: Between two rivers — one golden, one silver — she kneels upon a bridge made of pure sound. Metatron descends as a column of radiant letters, spiraling around her. “Doctrine is balance,” he intones, as the waters merge.
Prompt: Between two rivers — one golden, one silver — she kneels upon a bridge made of pure sound. Metatron descends as a column of radiant letters, spiraling around her. “Doctrine is balance,” he intones, as the waters merge.
Prompt: In the hollow between dying stars, a silence older than time hums like a hidden chord. Out of this void rise threads of gold and silver, spiraling around each other as they climb toward a point unseen. At their apex, they braid into a perfect cube, turning with impossible grace, its edges glowing like molten scripture. Metatron emerges through its shifting faces, not stepping forward but unfolding from the center, each movement etching new laws into the fabric of space. Every turn of the cube realigns constellations, every rotation rekindles forgotten covenants. The golden thread sings of genesis, the silver thread whispers of destiny, and their union writes the rhythm that all creation must keep.
Prompt: She dreams beneath a tree whose leaves are pure gold and whose roots glisten with silver veins. At the trunk sits Metatron, the celestial scribe, inscribing every breath of creation into bark that glows. The doctrine is not read — it is absorbed into the soul.
Prompt: In the mountain’s heart, a chamber of molten gold and liquid silver beats like a living organ. From its center rises Metatron, holding a scroll that unravels across dimensions, revealing the doctrine of unity — the hidden blueprint of all creation.
Prompt: In a temple without walls, stars hang like chandeliers of molten silver, and the air is heavy with golden mist. Metatron manifests as a body of countless eyes, each reflecting a different law. He is the doctrine made visible — the mirror of divine precision.
Prompt: A storm of radiant letters falls from an obsidian sky, glowing gold and silver before dissolving into silence. In their place arises Metatron, crowned with a cube of light. Each side turns like a wheel, each rotation revealing doctrine beyond memory
Prompt: In a temple without walls, stars hang like chandeliers of molten silver, and the air is heavy with golden mist. Metatron manifests as a body of countless eyes, each reflecting a different law. He is the doctrine made visible — the mirror of divine precision.
Prompt: At the threshold where light dissolves into nothing, golden flames drift upward as feathers, silver shadows fall downward as tears. They meet in mid-void, locking together into a spinning cube, each face a living psalm. From within its rotations steps Metatron, crowned by the cube, his essence half-fire, half-echo. He raises one hand, and the void ripples outward in concentric rings of scripture, each line burning then fading into silence. The cube spins, and the rings crystallize into worlds, each born from law, each dying into memory. Gold hums of beginnings, silver hums of endings, and he stands as the bridge that binds them, the eternal witness to their dance.
Prompt: Within a chamber shaped like the Tree of Life, golden paths connect to silver spheres glowing with eternal knowledge. At the highest crown, Metatron stands — a radiant conduit, bridging mortal thought with divine emanation, keeper of the doctrine of Sephiroth.
Prompt: She dreams beneath a tree whose leaves are pure gold and whose roots glisten with silver veins. At the trunk sits Metatron, the celestial scribe, inscribing every breath of creation into bark that glows. The doctrine is not read — it is absorbed into the soul.
Prompt: She dreams beneath a tree whose leaves are pure gold and whose roots glisten with silver veins. At the trunk sits Metatron, the celestial scribe, inscribing every breath of creation into bark that glows. The doctrine is not read — it is absorbed into the soul.
Prompt: Beneath a sky of metallic constellations, the ground reflects like a mirror of liquid silver. Metatron walks toward her in perfect symmetry, each step a law, each gesture a prophecy. The doctrine is not spoken — it is engraved in the air itself.
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.
