Prompt: The heavens unravel, spilling letters of fire and mist across the sky. Golden syllables drift like flames, silver ones like shadows. They gather, forming the crown of Metatron — a cube of law that turns forever, its rotation binding worlds.
Prompt: The heavens unravel, spilling letters of fire and mist across the sky. Golden syllables drift like flames, silver ones like shadows. They gather, forming the crown of Metatron — a cube of law that turns forever, its rotation binding worlds.
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: The heavens unravel, spilling letters of fire and mist across the sky. Golden syllables drift like flames, silver ones like shadows. They gather, forming the crown of Metatron — a cube of law that turns forever, its rotation binding worlds.
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: 6.
The night sky splits, revealing a river of silver stars flowing into a sea of molten gold. A thousand faces appear upon the waves, shifting like mirrors of infinity. At the center floats Metatron, holding silence that speaks louder than sound.
Prompt: The heavens unravel, spilling letters of fire and mist across the sky. Golden syllables drift like flames, silver ones like shadows. They gather, forming the crown of Metatron — a cube of law that turns forever, its rotation binding worlds.
Prompt: Atop a mountain surrounded by thunderclouds, she channels visions into a scroll of fire. As she writes, the sky opens and the figure of Metatron appears in a vortex of letters and light. Enoch transformed — mortal memory shaped into cosmic intelligence.
Prompt: The heavens unravel, spilling letters of fire and mist across the sky. Golden syllables drift like flames, silver ones like shadows. They gather, forming the crown of Metatron — a cube of law that turns forever, its rotation binding worlds.
Prompt: She approaches an altar of gold, veiled in silver mist. Upon it lies a cube that breathes like a heart. When it opens, glyphs ascend into the sky. Metatron gathers them into his hands — the doctrine of worlds unformed.
Prompt: 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.
Prompt: The heavens unravel, spilling letters of fire and mist across the sky. Golden syllables drift like flames, silver ones like shadows. They gather, forming the crown of Metatron — a cube of law that turns forever, its rotation binding worlds.
Prompt: A wheel of fire turns in the void, each spoke engraved in silver letters, each rim cast in gold. As it spins, time itself bends. At the center, Metatron speaks without sound: “The doctrine is motion.
Prompt: 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.
Prompt: The heavens ignite with letters of living metal — gold shining as flame, silver flowing as shadow. They weave together into a cube of endless rotation. Within it dwells Metatron, voice of the doctrine unbroken.
Prompt: A city of silver towers floats above oceans of gold. No gates, no doors — only light. At its center, a throne of geometry, and upon it Metatron: the scribe who writes with lightning, the doctrine itself carved in thunder.
Prompt: Atop a mountain surrounded by thunderclouds, she channels visions into a scroll of fire. As she writes, the sky opens and the figure of Metatron appears in a vortex of letters and light. Enoch transformed — mortal memory shaped into cosmic intelligence.
Prompt: 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.
Prompt: 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.
Prompt: Beneath an aurora of shattered suns, golden rain falls like molten dust and silver winds carve sigils into the frozen air. They spiral downward toward a crater of pure shadow, where they fuse into the cube — a crown of doctrine forged from contradiction. Metatron rises through the shadow as if it were light, the cube hovering just above his brow. It spins slowly, and each rotation folds the world: mountains collapse into words, oceans stretch into lines of verse, stars crumble into syllables. All things become script in his presence. The golden rain sings of birth, the silver wind whispers of memory, and the cube binds them into the symmetry called truth.
Prompt: The heavens unravel, spilling letters of fire and mist across the sky. Golden syllables drift like flames, silver ones like shadows. They gather, forming the crown of Metatron — a cube of law that turns forever, its rotation binding worlds.
Prompt: The heavens unravel, spilling letters of fire and mist across the sky. Golden syllables drift like flames, silver ones like shadows. They gather, forming the crown of Metatron — a cube of law that turns forever, its rotation binding worlds.
Prompt: The heavens unravel, spilling letters of fire and mist across the sky. Golden syllables drift like flames, silver ones like shadows. They gather, forming the crown of Metatron — a cube of law that turns forever, its rotation binding worlds.
Prompt: The heavens unravel, spilling letters of fire and mist across the sky. Golden syllables drift like flames, silver ones like shadows. They gather, forming the crown of Metatron — a cube of law that turns forever, its rotation binding worlds.
Prompt: 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.
Prompt: 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.
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.
