Prompt: Emotional, moody, peacefulness before or after the stage. Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Intimate, delicate, view from a distance of a woman out of sync, in a meditative or relaxed pose, going through lecture notes, either to check what she missed or to spot what she ought not to miss.
She's softly pacing the antechamber to a conference room in a uni stone building who's seen history made by men of times long gone. Her arms are floating around her, one with printed paper sheets heavily annotated by hand and the other waving at no one but herself. She's focused still, or focused already, and her face is smiling but her brows are focused. She's done it before, she just needs to do it again. Brilliantly.
A massive oaken door in the background, open to the amphitheater conference room, already filled with people waiting on her tp begin. A smaller wooden door, closed on the side. Windows up the high walls, otherwise ladden with tapestries and shelves stuffy with otherworldy glimmering weird artefacts from times unknown (except for her)
The woman is in her end twenties early thirties, French. Auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), half-up and coming loose. The ends of the hair are white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now). Fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks. Smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, not frail, not gaunt. Piercing ice grey-blue watchful eyes, jumping within the room like little specks of starlight.
She's wearing a dark blue satin half-sleeved blouse with a light very long scarf of the same colour, a tight but light elegant dark skirt and lacy sandal-boots. Legs, neck, arms, dimly lit, slightly shivering. Not posing. Faint sleepless shadow under the eyes. Teal and blue mascara and liner, with a discrete touch of sparkles, rosy cheeks; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect. Silver necklace, earrings and rings, fabric wristband.
Modern but old palette. Academic life goes slow. Intimate and unguarded, out-of-time and timeless autumn afternoon, hidden melancholy. Masterpiece, by eryn.
Prompt: An archivist in dust-softened tweed and a translucent, bioluminescent jellyfish orbit one another inside a vast aquarium constructed like a cathedral, its soaring glass walls and ribbed arches filled with water and light, as they dissect a glowing fractal card catalog whose drawers release constellations, diagrams, and handwritten annotations that drift upward and merge into a slow-turning galaxy. Illuminated from above with the cool, sacred glow of aquarium lighting, layers of transparency—index cards, star fields, curved glass, and pulsing tendrils—float in reverent suspension, while outside the tank greedy, spoiled children press their faces to the glass, fingers smearing the surface as they peer in at a world of infinite knowledge they cannot touch.
Prompt: A solitary figure known as the Archivist stands at the edge of an immense obsidian platform suspended above a twilight desert. Robes of black silk and glass-thread flare behind them, etched with constellations that shift like living ink. A translucent sphere of captured light floats before the Archivist’s outstretched hand, its surface rippling with miniature suns in their final flare. One hand is lifted in quiet invocation; the other steadies a staff traced with orbit diagrams and luminous runes that pulse like heartbeats.
The scene unfolds from a low vantage at platform level, looking outward into the immense spiral of desert dunes below. Each dune curves into the next, forming concentric rings of sand that stretch to a horizon blurred by heat and dust. Overhead, an eclipsed sun hangs in perfect balance — its corona a crown of molten fire, the surrounding sky falling from violet to black through a haze of ember-colored wind.
Every gust across the desert lifts curtains of luminous dust that swirl and rise toward the platform. The particles glow faintly, painting calligraphic trails through the air before dissolving into the gathering night. The Archivist’s robes whip in the wind, becoming script themselves — a language written by gravity and flame. The sphere reflects the eclipse as a refracted storm of light, bending reality around it.
The platform tiles beneath the Archivist’s feet are inlaid with faint silver lines that map forgotten constellations. The air vibrates softly with static and the smell of ozone, as if every atom remembers the stars that birthed it. Heat shimmer ripples along the horizon, melting sky and earth into a single luminous fabric.
Foreground: the Archivist and the glowing sphere; Midground: the vast drop to desert spirals; Background: the dying eclipse bleeding into a cosmic void. Lighting radiates from two sources — the cool halo of the eclipsed corona and the warm, inner blaze of the suns within the sphere — creating a double exposure of gold and indigo. The world feels silent, reverent, on the edge of revelation.
Rendered in the heroic-fantasy oil style of Boris Vallejo, Frank Frazetta, and Ken Kelly; mythic realism, rich atmosphere, dramatic chiaroscuro, glowing dust motes drifting through shadowed air, every surface breathing with light and silence.
--mod cinematic lighting, --mod rim light, --mod volumetric light beams, --mod golden backscatter, --mod glass refraction bloom, --mod cosmic dust motes, --mod desaturated palette core, --mod mythic realism, --mod dynamic composition, --mod central hero lockup
Prompt: sixty years old czech man sits and read at the table with a lot of charters and papers and single table-lamp with cobwebs in background, pale skin, white hairs and white classic beard, small rounded eyeglasses, whire shirt and brown vest, night
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.
