Prompt: Portrait in watercolor style of a woman with detailed facial features and expressive eyes, wearing a vibrant, traditional costume. The art piece combines fantasy elements with realism, featuring a countryside scenery in the background. The artwork showcases post-impressionist colorism and a soft, velvety texture.
Prompt: A hyper-realistic, cinematic wide shot of Seppo Ilmarinen forging the Sampo. The scene is set in a cavernous, primordial forge carved into a glacier. Instead of a simple mill, the Sampo is depicted as a complex, rotating fractal machine made of iridescent celestial bronze and obsidian. Molten starlight drips from the anvil. Ilmarinen is a towering figure, his skin etched with glowing runic tattoos, eyes reflecting cosmic fire. High contrast, Chiaroscuro lighting, volumetric smoke, 8k resolution, intricate mechanical details, cold blue ice juxtaposed with searing white-hot metal.
Prompt: Two women at a stone table in a room. Athena sits rigid in full steel armor, focused intensely on a chessboard. Opposite her, Aphrodite lounges in loose silk, smiling, casually placing a red apple on top of the chess pieces.
Prompt: A giant, rusted Soviet-era robot half-buried in a dense, green fern forest. The metal is covered in thick moss and small white flowers. A deer is grazing peacefully right next to the robot's mechanical hand. Sunlight filtering through the trees. Studio Ghibli atmosphere mixed with realism, peaceful decay.
We undergo cognitive recalibration. A 23-minute neural-damping procedure.
Model:
SeeDream
Size:
2560 X 1440
(3.69 MP)
Used settings:
Prompt: Chase plays: Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” first movement.
Voss: [Stiffens, eyes widen] This is a highly complex, irregular waveform. Its purpose? It does not convey data. It is… patterned chaos.
Chase: It’s not about purpose. It’s about feeling. What does it do to you?
Voss: It… creates inefficiency. My focus is shattered. I am tracking the repetition of the lower-frequency pattern, but the higher notes introduce unpredictable variables. It is… [She places a hand over her sternum]… creating a physiological resonance. Is this a targeted acoustic weapon?
Chase: [Laughs softly, then stops] No. It’s the opposite. For us, it’s a comfort. A sadness. A beauty. All at once.
Voss: “Beauty.” A categorization with over 8.3 million subjective definitions in your historical databases. A useless term. Yet… the uselessness is… compelling. It makes me think of the empty spaces in our architecture. We call them “calibration zones.” They are just… empty. Is that what they are for? To be filled with… this?
Chase: Maybe. Or with nothing. The point is the possibility. You say you have no conflict. What do you do when you’re angry? Or grieving?
Voss: We undergo cognitive recalibration. A 23-minute neural-damping procedure.
Chase: We… we listen to angry music. We paint messy paintings. We write poems that don’t rhyme. It lets the feeling out. It turns pain into something you can share. Something that says, “I exist, I felt this.”
Voss: [Silent for a full 30 seconds. The music continues softly] This is a technology. A profound one. You are using auditory signals to transmit… a shared internal state. To bypass language. To create a… a collective neurological event. We lost this. We considered it noise, but it is a transmission protocol. For the human soul. [The last word is spoken haltingly, as if foreign].
Chase: That’s one way to put it.
Voss: I have been studying your history incorrectly. I analyzed wars, economic shifts, technological progress. I saw the art as a footnote. Decoration. I reversed the causality. The art wasn’t a product of your times. It was the engine. It was the source code for your irrational, volatile, beautiful hope. Your capacity to imagine a world different from the one you have. We cannot imagine a different one. We have achieved perfection. It is a perfect, silent, gray cage.
Chase: So why are you here?
Voss: Officially? To observe pre-Rationalization societal structures. But I think… I think a fragment of the data survived. A ghost in our collective network. A whisper of a whisper. A deep, systemic error: the feeling of something missing. I am here to find the source of the error. I now understand. I am not here to study your history. I am here to… feel what mine is missing. To download a ghost.
[The final notes of the sonata fade out. The silence that follows is thick, profound.]
Voss: Can you… play it again?
[Miranda Chase nods, and restarts the track.]
Prompt: --October 12th, 1874-- The Barometer began its fell descent two days prior, a steady, dreadful retreat that spoke of a fury gathering its breath far out in the Atlantic. By this morning, the glass had sunk to a depth I have not witnessed in all my thirty years upon this granite tooth. The sea, that old familiar companion, transformed before my eyes; its hue turned a malevolent, livid green, and the swell rose not in waves, but in great, heaving mounds of water.
By nightfall, the tempest was upon us in truth. It is not the wind that frightens me—I have known a hundred gales—but the voice of this one. It is not a howl, but a sustained, monstrous shriek as if the very air were being flayed upon the rocks. The tower, my steadfast charge these many decades, trembles to its bones. I feel it through the stone, a deep and unnerving vibration. Each time a sea, greater than the last, thunders against the cliff below, the entire structure groans, and salt spray, thick as rain, obscures the lantern glass high above.
I have made my rounds, my oilskin crackling like parchment against the onslaught. The light turns, steady and sure, its great Fresnel lens cutting through the murk. To keep that beam alive is my singular purpose. Somewhere out in that chaos, men cling to their decks, their eyes straining for that very glimmer. The thought alone steels my nerve.
The air is warm, unnaturally so for October—the Devil’s own breath, they’d say in the village. I can taste the salt on my lips, and my ears ache from the constant pressure. I write this now by the feeble light of a storm lantern, the inkwell threatening to skitter from the desk. The world is reduced to this circle of light, the roar, and the shuddering stone.
God keep all souls upon the water this night. And God grant this old tower strength for a few hours more. The dawn, should it come, will tell a tale of wreckage, I fear. But the light remains. It must.
Prompt: Create an image as if it were a page from a forgotten treatise on an esoteric subject. The style must be that of a master technical illustrator or an anatomical artist from the 18th century. Use obsessively precise, fine-nib ink lines. The subject, whatever you choose, must be depicted with absolute clarity and objectivity, possibly in cross-section or as an exploded diagram. Employ delicate hatching and stippling for shading, creating form through meticulous technique rather than expressive shadow. The composition must be sterile, centered on a parchment-like background, perhaps with annotations in a precise, spidery script. The atmosphere is one of profound, silent study.
Prompt: A stillness lies upon the world this night, a quietude so absolute it rings in my ears louder than any gale. I have stood watch these fifteen years, and in all that time have known no peace like this, nor feared any thing so thoroughly.
The sea is not water, but a sheet of dark glass, stretched to the horizon. No swell, no ripple mars its face. It reflects the indifferent stars with a perfection that seems a mockery, a vast, black mirror showing a sky that has no business below. The very waves have ceased their eternal whispering against the rocks; the island itself holds its breath.
In a great storm, a man knows his enemy. The wind has a voice, the waves a intent. One fights, one endures. But this… this void of sensation… it is as if God has turned His attention elsewhere and left naught but this painted scene behind. No gull cries, no seal barks from the distant skerries. The very smell of salt and weed is gone from the air, leaving it dead and flat.
I have lit the lamp. Its steady turning and the soft hiss of the flame are the only sounds, a feeble bastion against this drowning silence. I watch the beam sweep out across the void, and it falls upon the water not as a light, but as a pale scratch upon a fathomless, polished floor. It shows nothing, reaches nothing.
I am more uneasy now than when the tempests shake these very stones. A storm speaks of life, however violent. This calm speaks of something else entirely. I shall trim the wick again, and keep my watch, and pray for a wind – even a devil’s wind – to break this terrible hush upon the morrow.
Prompt: A cinematic close-up shot of Leeloo from The Fifth Element. She is staring at a computer screen displaying a rapid montage of war history. Her face is illuminated by the harsh, flickering light of the monitor. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, her expression is one of absolute horror and heartbreak. Messy bright orange bob hair, white thermal bandage outfit. The screen's reflection is visible in her eyes. Dark background, high contrast, emotional atmosphere, photorealistic, 4k.
I mostly lean more towards curiosity than creativity (on my part) with AI stuff, but I do appreciate the approach where people aim to harness AI to express their own creativity.
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.
