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.
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.
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.
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: 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: 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: n the hollow between dying stars, a silence older than time hums like a hidden chord. Out of this void rise threads of gold and silver, spiraling around each other as they climb toward a point unseen. At their apex, they braid into a perfect cube, turning with impossible grace, its edges glowing like molten scripture. Metatron emerges through its shifting faces, not stepping forward but unfolding from the center, each movement etching new laws into the fabric of space. Every turn of the cube realigns constellations, every rotation rekindles forgotten covenants. The golden thread sings of genesis, the silver thread whispers of destiny, and their union writes the rhythm that all creation must keep.
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 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: 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: In the silence before dawn, the sky cracks open, and letters pour forth — golden syllables as sparks of flame, silver syllables as shadows of mist. They circle endlessly, weaving patterns of sacred geometry until they lock into form: the cube of eternal doctrine. It rotates slowly, a crown above Metatron’s head, each turn revealing laws older than galaxies. Around him, the void bends into order, the chaos becomes rhythm, and the silence becomes song. The golden syllables hum with creation, the silver syllables hum with remembrance, and their harmony is doctrine itself. Metatron stands as witness, as keeper, as eternal scribe. The cube spins, and eternity bows to its rotation.
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 storm of radiant letters falls from an obsidian sky, glowing gold and silver before dissolving into silence. In their place arises Metatron, crowned with a cube of light. Each side turns like a wheel, each rotation revealing doctrine beyond memory
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: a realistic masterpiece. watercolour. on a white background. sfumato, double exposure, a very handsome young man sitting on a crossbar and a very beautiful blonde woman, the daughter of one of the gods, as if descending from the clouds against the background of an orange sun in a golden sunset in 5d, a 3d graphite volumetric storm wave scattering across the square in drops and splashes. mountains in the distance, high detail, 8K,
Prompt: (A masterpiece of unparalleled excellence), (("A surreal landscape features a large colorful cube structure, surrounded by whimsical trees and a bright sun. A small figure interacts with the cube, while wind turbines loom in the background". Side View, Ultra detailed, High quality rendering, Colorful complex stipple texture)), Inspired by the style illustrations of Arthur Rackham, Friedensreich Hundertwasser, Joan Miró, Edward Gorey and Tomasz Setowski. (Full Size image).
Prompt: surreal view of a CUBE form, each congruent square has a different landscape view: summer, winter, autumn, spring; day and night, sun and moon, desert and lush forest, with beautiful shades of greens, purples, red, Contraposition and Contrapposto
Prompt: Abstract Water Block A modern abstract design featuring a transparent block with swirling water textures, set against a beige and blue background with a yellow accent. Dynamic Minimalist Modern Water texture Art Abstract
Prompt: Hyperrealistic depiction of a grotesque organic Rubik's cube made entirely of human body parts. Each box of the cube is a fleshy segment—pieces of skin, muscles, eyeballs, fingers, ears, and mouth—all harmoniously fused together. The parts are moist and realistic, with pores, hair, blood vessels, and wrinkles visible. Some squares contract slightly or flash, while others leak fluids or contract like muscle tissue. The cube appears partially loosened, with misaligned body parts—a finger awkwardly pressing on an eye, or tight teeth around a misaligned tongue. It lies on a sterile metal table under cold medical lighting, with a background that suggests a bioengineering laboratory or an alien operating room. The atmosphere is unsettling and surreal, evoking a mixture of body horror and futuristic experimentation.
Prompt: dark cosmic background with stars, large floating cube in motion, subtle glitch or distortion trail behind the object, muted teal and dark gray color palette with magenta accents, evokes spacecraft drifting through space, abstract and minimalist, bold modern design, melancholic krautrock tone, album artwork with geometric visual impact
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.
