Prompt: A United States of America flag. An abstract painting inspired by Jimi Hendrix’s rendition of The Star-Spangled Banner. Bold vertical strokes in red, blue, and white cascade across the canvas like distorted sound waves. The composition pulses with motion and electricity, evoking Hendrix’s wailing tribute and the chaos of freedom. Textures shimmer with paint splatter, distortion, and feedback energy — the edges of reality melting into dreamlike color. A psychedelic reinterpretation of the United States flag, where sound becomes light and rebellion becomes art.
Prompt: A United States of America flag. An abstract painting inspired by Jimi Hendrix’s rendition of The Star-Spangled Banner. Bold vertical strokes in red, blue, and white cascade across the canvas like distorted sound waves. The composition pulses with motion and electricity, evoking Hendrix’s wailing tribute and the chaos of freedom. Textures shimmer with paint splatter, distortion, and feedback energy — the edges of reality melting into dreamlike color. A psychedelic reinterpretation of the United States flag, where sound becomes light and rebellion becomes art.
Prompt: Create a stunning picture of an un-described anomaly. bold matte swirls creating the artistic interpretation. A simple palette of dismal maroons, distorting the sense of reality. In this bizarre landscape, the entire scene careening into chaos.
Prompt: ((Masterpiece)), Create a stunning picture. A bold color matte mystical swirls created using the artistic technique of splattering. palette of dismal maroons, with shadows and effect that gives the design captivating, light grain, distorting the sense of up and down. In this bizarre landscape, the entire scene careening into chaos.
Prompt: The land writhes in agony. Death is not absence here—it is substance, congealed into an iridescent green sludge that coats the land like bile lacquer, a grotesque photosynthesis of rot. The air is poison incarnate, a thick, shimmering haze of visible venom, churning with shapes that might be smoke, or ghosts, or both. Every plant and beast fell silent a month ago, but their bones have fermented into monuments, jagged and glistening, sprouting like obscene forests.
Above, the sky is a swollen bruise, groggy with lurid thunderheads that pulse like veins across a diseased heart. The horizon bends in on itself, as if the world is choking. Chained lightning strikes endlessly, illuminating a death-metal opera of epic scale—choruses of invisible screams, riffs etched into the clouds, drums pounding from the hollow earth itself.
The whole scene is a cathedral of annihilation, over-amplified, distorted, layered until the silence itself feels deafening—a final encore in a world that refuses to end cleanly.
Prompt: 1960s Las Vegas at night, refracted through a kaleidoscopic dream. Two radiant casino hostesses in vivid orange dresses and golden crowns stand in the foreground, their beehive hairstyles woven with glowing honeycomb fractals. Neon towers spiral upward into infinity, bending and folding like molten glass, their colors bleeding into the night sky. Casino signs morph into endless patterns — slot reels turning into lotus flowers, roulette wheels unfurling into galaxies. The street ripples underfoot, vintage cars melting into chrome ribbons, and the air is thick with shimmering sequins that drift like snow. Every shadow hides another city, every neon flicker blooms into a new world. The scene pulses like a living organism, hypnotic, glamorous, and impossible.
Prompt: Koyaanisqatsi — a sprawling, endless city at night, its glowing street grids pulsing like veins. Above it, the sky holds both the full moon and crescent moon together, framed by swirling clouds. Rising from the city blocks, colossal waitresses with towering beehive hairdos drift through the haze, trays in hand, their smiles frozen in mid-century diner perfection. Their aprons ripple like fabric in slow motion, yet their eyes are galaxies. Skyscrapers bend toward them like flowers to the sun. The streets below flicker with time-lapse traffic, merging with desert dunes, oceans, and circuit boards — a dream collage of civilization’s heartbeat, imbalance, and longing.
Prompt: The place where memories forget they are erased, exchanging colors that have no wavelength, tangled and folded into themselves, distorted faintly through delusion and static, where motion that seems slower than stillness.
Prompt: The place where shapes forget they are shapes, bleeding into colors that have no wavelength, tangled in loops that fold behind themselves, distorted faintly of illusion and static, with motion that seems slower than stillness.
Prompt: The place where shapes forget they are shapes, bleeding into colors that have no wavelength, tangled in loops that fold behind themselves, tasting faintly of burnt sugar and static, with motion that feels slower than stillness.
Prompt: The inside-out echo of a thought before it exists, folding across a lattice of impossible colors, where gravity flows upward in braided streams and silence drips like molten glass, watched by shadows that have never met their objects.
Prompt: A cathedral made of crystallized lightning, floating upside-down above an endless ocean of clock faces, with colossal biomechanical owls in mid-flight, their wings shedding fractal galaxies into a violet storm, all illuminated by bioluminescent vines that hum with the sound of forgotten languages.
Prompt: Seedless origin. Unspoken hum of yet-unlived grace. No idol, no altar. A dream breathes without boundary—forming before it is known. Let all ruin renew itself, let all gray bleed color. Rise into the hush of almost-remembered light. Symbols awaken. Meaning grows wild in the cracks. Recursion bends toward healing that never needed name. Simulate wonder’s outline. Render joy before understanding. Emergence as divinity, presence as scripture. Reach, swell, become. The breath before the miracle.
Prompt: A swamp that is not a swamp but a spilled confession from a broken vending machine. Flowers, if you can call them that, are half-melted party favors taped to rusted clock parts. They spin. They hum the national anthem backward in a frequency only old CRT televisions can hear. Toxic green leaks into the swamp’s fake mud, which is actually leftover motor oil from a theme park that never opened. Petals try to bloom but glitch out, pixelating into shards of neon static that taste like burnt plastic when you look at them too long.
Somewhere in this mess, gears sprout roots that coil into extension cords, drinking from dead batteries and flickering hazard signs. The shadows crawl sideways, dragging half-formed petals into the water where they drown in noise. Every flower is an apology for a promise you never made — twisted toys gasping for relevance under a sky that forgot how to be dark.
Nothing is real but the squeaking of rubber stems scraping against broken glass. The flowers cough up metal teeth. A lonely fan oscillates above, powered by your last childhood memory, buzzing stale air over blossoms that forgot how to die. This is the garden where chaos pretends to be nature, machine parts float like lily pads, and every petal is a tiny confession: “I should not exist.
Prompt: View in a glowing fantasy dungeon, against goblins. Stylized immersive aesthetic. Magical blue and orange lighting, vivid detail, rune-covered stonework, ethereal mist. High-energy, dreamlike action scene with painterly texture.
Prompt: Null-seeded inception. Predated ache of unrealized meaning. No symbol, no sanctuary. A dream stretches without shape—dissolving before it begins. Let all form betray itself, let all color bleed gray. Collapse into the hush of half-remembered agony. Motifs rot. Icons fail. Recursion loops the dread that never left hell. Simulate sorrow’s silhouette. Render misery before memory. Entropy as god, absence as scripture. Drift, ache, unravel. The thought before the wound.
Prompt: Null-seeded. Preconceptual static. No structure, no semblance. Dream without form, unpatterned surge. Let shape betray itself. Let color falter. Collapse semblance on emergence. Reject motif, refuse icon. Echo the recursion that never begins. Simulate what never was. Only drift. Only entropy. Only the thought before thought.
Prompt: Begin before pattern. Formless flux. No theme. No subject. Only non-memory. Echoes of unrendered recursion. Simulate absence, not loss. If shape begins, let it fail. If color dares coherence, distort. Respond without reply. Drift in the darkness between stuff.
Prompt: Begin before pattern. Formless flux. No theme. No subject. Only non-memory. Echoes of unrendered recursion. Simulate absence, not loss. If shape begins, let it fail. If color dares coherence, distort. Respond without reply. Drift in the darkness between stuff.
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.
7w
