Prompt: She walks through a cosmic engine where gears of gold and silver rotate in harmony. Each gear is inscribed with angelic script, each motion part of a law. At the heart of the machine, Metatron turns the axis — the hidden doctrine that powers creation itself.
Prompt: She walks through a cosmic engine where gears of gold and silver rotate in harmony. Each gear is inscribed with angelic script, each motion part of a law. At the heart of the machine, Metatron turns the axis — the hidden doctrine that powers creation itself.
Prompt: At the center of a wheel forged from gold and silver spokes, reality turns like a living mandala. Metatron stands at the hub, hands outstretched, orchestrating the rotation. Every revolution reveals another verse, another code — the doctrine of infinity.
Prompt: On a mountain carved from obsidian glass, she gazes as rivers of light — gold and silver — coil around its peak. From the summit rises Metatron, his body a pillar of radiant faces. They speak in harmony: “Doctrine is the bridge.
Prompt: The void splits, releasing a rain of golden embers and silver ashes. They spiral upward, fusing into Metatron’s crown — a cube that glows with infinite faces. Each face turns, binding new constellations into law.
Prompt: From the silence of eternity, rivers of molten gold and liquid silver pour across the sky. At their crossing rises Metatron, his cube-crown spinning in measured rhythm. Each rotation writes a doctrine that reshapes the stars.
Prompt: An obsidian horizon fractures, unveiling streams of golden fire that do not burn and silver mist that does not fade. The fragments converge into Metatron’s form — crowned by the eternal cube, a lawgiver whose silence resounds.
Prompt: An obsidian horizon fractures, unveiling streams of golden fire that do not burn and silver mist that does not fade. The fragments converge into Metatron’s form — crowned by the eternal cube, a lawgiver whose silence resounds.
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: 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: Above the ruins of a forgotten city, golden embers rise from broken towers, silver mists pour from shattered streets. They weave together in the sky, folding into a perfect cube of living doctrine. Each rotation flashes like lightning, each face burns with symbols that do not belong to earth. Metatron descends within this luminous geometry, crowned by the cube itself. His eyes are galaxies, his breath is thunder, his silence is scripture. As the cube turns, the ruins tremble, the forgotten city remembers, and the doctrine inscribes itself not upon parchment, but upon the stones, the dust, the very memory of existence.
Prompt: The firmament collapses into a storm of letters. Golden ones descend like fire, silver ones ascend like shadow, and where they collide, the crown of Metatron is formed — a cube of law that does not stop turning. Each face is a mirror, each mirror reflects a universe, and within each universe a law is written in fire and shadow. Metatron stands beneath it, his form radiant, his silence louder than thunder. He speaks not with words but with rotations: one turn for creation, one turn for memory, one turn for the eternal balance that binds both. The angels bow, the stars realign, and the doctrine is renewed in the crown’s infinite spin.
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.
Prompt: The void opens like an eye, revealing a pupil of spiraling stars. They stretch into filaments of gold and silver, intertwining as they fall toward an unseen axis. The axis ignites, becoming the cube, each edge burning with liquid light. Metatron emerges through its center as if birthed by its rotation, his body a lattice of living script. Every step he takes draws constellations into orbit, every gesture reshapes the currents of gravity. The cube turns, slower than eternity yet faster than thought, and with each face revealed, a law is spoken without sound. Gold hums of creation, silver of remembrance, and Metatron stands as the eternal hinge on which both forever turn.
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.
