Prompt: Sketchbook drawing, realistic and loose. Moody, ethereal. Masterful composition, the ten thousand strokes spent on someone nobody sees. Tout en gris, sauf ce que l'eau redouble. Seen straight down onto a large open sketchbook, the page several hands wide, the drawing filling almost the whole frame, the page edge barely visible: a city dawn in high summer, an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the early light already warm and white, dappled leaf shadows on pale dry pavement, heat-haze in fine trembling strokes far down the street, poplar fluff drifting, the street half-finished and fading into blank paper toward the edges, the figure finished. One woman stands at the stop, seen from behind, full length, in the left third, the pale street opening away to the right, a stranger in the same queue, near, not close. Dressed simply for the heat: a soft crop top, loose light trousers, sandals, a gauzy loose-woven chale slipped half off one shoulder, its ends stirring, dark hair tied low and lazy, strands loose at the temple. Canvas bag on her shoulder, weight on one hip, a cold drink in a plain cup in her right hand, condensation running down its side; her left hand hangs bare at her side, and at that wrist a slim woven band, a finger wide, faded almost white, the palest thing on her. At her feet one long puddle where someone hosed the stones at dawn, still and mirror-flat, and her reflection hangs straight down from her soles, upside down, in soft wet lines, unfinished. In the water at the reflection's left wrist, and only there, the band's colours: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, wider and brighter than the band itself, the only colour on the page, and one white petal drifting across it. Beyond her, sparse of line, early commuters without coats, a dog walker far off, a pigeon small and far, dusty trees in full leaf, the bus approaching faintest of all, a pale shape with two lights. In the lower right corner, small against the large page, about a fifth of the frame, the artist's hand enters, real and slightly out of focus: a slender feminine hand, fine-boned, honey-pale skin lightly warmed by the sun, a bare wrist, two rings in all: on the index finger a thin silver ring set with one small round cabochon opal, milky white, faint flickers of blue, green and rose inside it, and on the middle finger a ring of undyed knotted thread. Her pencil goes back over the reflection's outline, a second pass, doubling the line this very moment. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Hushed, warm, unhurried: whoever she is, she is taking a little of a dream through the summer morning, and only the light and the one drawing her ever knew. Masterpiece, by eryn.
Prompt: Sketchbook drawing, realistic and loose. Moody, ethereal. Masterful composition, the ten thousand strokes spent on someone nobody sees. Tout en gris, sauf ce que l'eau recommence. Seen straight down onto a large open sketchbook, the page several hands wide, the drawing filling almost the whole frame, the page edge barely visible: a city morning in full spring, the rain just ended, an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the washed light almost too bright, the street half-finished and fading into blank paper toward the edges, the figure finished. Trees in first leaf drawn in the finest lightest strokes, blossom on two of them left as white paper, petals down on the wet stone, drops still falling from the leaves. One woman stands at the stop, seen from behind, full length, in the left third, the wet street opening away to the right, a stranger in the same queue, near, not close. A light cardigan open over a simple dress, sleeves pushed up, the year's first bare forearms, dark hair in a low knot, strands curling in the damp air. Canvas bag on her shoulder, a paper cup in her right hand, lid off, a thin thread of steam; her left hand hangs bare at her side, and at that wrist a slim woven band, a finger wide, faded almost white, the palest thing on her. At her feet a brand new puddle, still rippling in concentric rings, and her reflection is assembling in it, hanging straight down from her soles, upside down, arriving in pieces as the water calms, loose blurred strokes, unfinished. Along the rings at the reflection's left wrist, and only there, the band's colours are coming back: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, smearing along the arcs, the only colour on the page. Beyond her, sparse of line, blurred people shaking out umbrellas, wet benches, a pigeon at middle distance, the bus approaching faintest of all, a pale shape with two lights. In the lower right corner, small against the large page, about a fifth of the frame, the artist's hand enters, real and slightly out of focus: a slender feminine hand, fine-boned, pale skin with the first warmth of the year, a loose cardigan cuff at the wrist, two rings in all: on the index finger a thin silver ring set with one small round cabochon opal, milky white, faint flickers of blue, green and rose inside it, and a thin twisted silver band on the middle finger. The pencil held loose, one fingertip faintly tinted rose and blue, smudging the colour along the ripple rings this very moment. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Hushed, rinsed, beginning: whoever she is, she is carrying a little of a dream into the new year of the world, and only the rain and the one drawing her ever knew. Masterpiece, by eryn.
Prompt: Sketchbook drawing, realistic and loose. Moody, ethereal. Masterful composition, the ten thousand strokes spent on someone nobody sees. Tout en gris, sauf ce que l'eau garde. Seen straight down onto a large open sketchbook, the page several hands wide, the drawing filling almost the whole frame, the page edge barely visible: a city morning in deep winter, snow falling fine and slow, an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the snow left as untouched paper, the street half-finished and fading into blank page toward the edges, the figure finished. One woman stands at the stop, seen from behind, full length, in the left third, the white street opening away to the right, a stranger in the same queue, near, not close. A fitted wool coat cut close to her body, belted at the waist, collar up, a chunky scarf wound high, a knitted hat with snow gathering on it, snow dusted on her shoulders, a few dark strands frozen-curled at the nape, her breath a long slow plume. Canvas bag on her shoulder, a paper cup held low in one mittened hand at her side, steam thick in the cold. Over that dark mitten's cuff, worn outside everything, a slim woven band, a finger wide, faded almost white, pale against the dark wool, a ghost of pattern. A line of her footprints stitched across the fresh snow, stopping where she stands. At her feet a frozen puddle, frost-feathered at the rim, swept clean, and sealed under the ice her reflection is held, upside down, hanging straight down from her soles, slightly blurred by the frozen depth, and under the ice at the reflection's wrist, and only there, the band's colours are kept: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, the only colour on the page. A pigeon puffed round near her feet, muffled commuters sparse of line, the bus approaching faintest of all, pale halo lights, sign unreadable. In the lower right corner, small against the large page, about a fifth of the frame, the artist's hand rests, real and slightly out of focus, the pencil lifted, pausing: a slender feminine hand, fine-boned, palest winter skin, faint blue veins at the wrist, a grey fingerless knit glove, two rings in all, worn over the glove: on the index finger a thin silver ring set with one small round cabochon opal, milky white, faint flickers of blue, green and rose inside it, and a thick plain silver band on the middle finger. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Deep, kept, hushed: whoever she is, she is carrying a little of a dream through the coldest morning of the year, and only the snow and the one drawing her ever knew. Masterpiece, by eryn.
Prompt: Sketchbook drawing, realistic and loose. Moody, ethereal. Masterful composition, the ten thousand strokes spent on someone nobody sees. Tout en gris, sauf ce dont l'eau se souvient. Seen straight down onto a large open sketchbook, the page several hands wide, the drawing filling almost the whole frame, the page edge barely visible: a city dawn in fine autumn rain at an ordinary bus stop, soft graphite, construction lines left in, the street half-finished and fading into blank paper toward the edges, the figure finished. Rain as thin aslant pencil threads, wet leaves plastered to the pavement, one tumbling past. One woman stands at the stop, seen from behind, full length, in the left third, the wet street opening away to the right, a stranger in the same queue, near, not close. A fitted wool coat cut close to her body, belted at the waist, falling to mid-calf, deep hatching, collar up, chunky-knit scarf wound twice, dark hair in a low knot half undone by the wind, strands rain-curled at the nape. Canvas bag on her shoulder, stance tired and easy, a paper cup held low in her right hand at her side, a thin thread of steam. On that wrist, just past the dark sleeve, a slim woven band, a finger wide, faded almost white, pale against the dark wool, a ghost of pattern. She stands at the edge of a puddle, the toes of her boots touching the water, and her reflection begins at her soles and hangs straight down from them, upside down, same coat, same knot, a few loose blurred strokes, still unfinished. In the water at the reflection's wrist, and only there, the band's colours come back: a few soft strokes of coloured pencil, rose, gold and blue, along the ripples, the only colour on the page. A fallen leaf crosses the reflection. Beyond her, sparse of line, blurred commuters under umbrellas, bare trees, a pigeon small on the pavement, the bus approaching faintest of all, lights pale, sign unreadable. In the lower right corner, small against the large page, about a fifth of the frame, the artist's hand enters, real and slightly out of focus: a slender feminine hand, fine-boned, pale smooth skin with the last of summer fading from it, a grey wool cuff at the wrist, two rings in all: on the index finger a thin silver ring set with one small round cabochon opal, milky white, faint flickers of blue, green and rose inside it, and a plain oxidised silver band on the middle finger. Her pencil tip touches the colour in the water, laying it in this very moment. The page sharp, the hand soft. No letters anywhere. Hushed, ordinary, secretly lit: whoever she is, she is taking a little of a dream to work, and only the rain and the one drawing her ever knew. Masterpiece, by eryn.
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.
