Prompt: Beneath a sky of metallic constellations, the ground reflects like a mirror of liquid silver. Metatron walks toward her in perfect symmetry, each step a law, each gesture a prophecy. The doctrine is not spoken — it is engraved in the air itself.
Prompt: She dreams beneath a tree whose leaves are pure gold and whose roots glisten with silver veins. At the trunk sits Metatron, the celestial scribe, inscribing every breath of creation into bark that glows. The doctrine is not read — it is absorbed into the soul.
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 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: On the edge of a dimension stitched from sacred geometry, she watches as angelic beings bow in perfect formation. At their center: Metatron, cloaked in white fire, issuing decrees in a language of pure vibration. The order of heaven is not silent — it sings
Prompt: Inside a cathedral forged from gold filigree and silver veins, angelic choirs float in the air like crystal harmonies. Metatron, crowned with a halo of infinite polygons, extends a quill of light, ready to write her destiny into the eternal doctrine.
Prompt: Beneath a sky of metallic constellations, the ground reflects like a mirror of liquid silver. Metatron walks toward her in perfect symmetry, each step a law, each gesture a prophecy. The doctrine is not spoken — it is engraved in the air itself.
Prompt: In a realm where rivers of molten silver flow beneath bridges of pure gold, she encounters Metatron standing on a platform of rotating symbols. Each symbol is a key, each turn unlocking another layer of the doctrine that sustains existence.
Prompt: In a temple without walls, stars hang like chandeliers of molten silver, and the air is heavy with golden mist. Metatron manifests as a body of countless eyes, each reflecting a different law. He is the doctrine made visible — the mirror of divine precision.
Prompt: An obsidian sky splits open, releasing golden flames that do not burn and silver shadows that do not fade. From within emerges Metatron, his crown a cube of endless faces. Each face recites a law — the doctrine unending
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: 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: She dreams beneath a tree whose leaves are pure gold and whose roots glisten with silver veins. At the trunk sits Metatron, the celestial scribe, inscribing every breath of creation into bark that glows. The doctrine is not read — it is absorbed into the soul.
Prompt: An obsidian sky splits open, releasing golden flames that do not burn and silver shadows that do not fade. From within emerges Metatron, his crown a cube of endless faces. Each face recites a law — the doctrine unending
Prompt: She walks barefoot across a sea of shattered mirrors, each shard reflecting a different lifetime. In the center, an angel of immense stillness waits, wings made of sigils and ancient code. Metatron, guardian of the Akashic scrolls, watches her steps with silent judgment. 36 wings and 365000 ochi in the fizical body
Prompt: In the mountain’s heart, a chamber of molten gold and liquid silver beats like a living organ. From its center rises Metatron, holding a scroll that unravels across dimensions, revealing the doctrine of unity — the hidden blueprint of all creation.
Prompt: Amid clouds woven from powdered gold and moonlit silver, she hears the whisper of Metatron. His words manifest as glowing diagrams in the air — the unspoken doctrine, the living formula, the architecture of eternity traced with perfect, deliberate hands.
Prompt: She ascends a staircase carved from gold and silver, each step engraved with sacred Hebrew letters. At the summit, Metatron waits, wrapped in a cloak of living fire. He lifts a scroll that burns yet does not consume, revealing the doctrine of hidden names.
Prompt: Within a chamber shaped like the Tree of Life, golden paths connect to silver spheres glowing with eternal knowledge. At the highest crown, Metatron stands — a radiant conduit, bridging mortal thought with divine emanation, keeper of the doctrine of Sephiroth.
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: Inside a celestial archive lit by rotating suns, a woman traces the glowing glyphs on a translucent wall. Behind her, Metatron manifests — neither male nor female — a being made of thought and thunder, eternal steward of the Book of Life.
Prompt: She floats through a chamber of golden architecture, the walls humming with divine frequencies. From above descends a radiant presence with a thousand wings, eyes burning like galaxies — Metatron, closest to the Throne, conductor of the angelic chorus.
Prompt: In a realm where rivers of molten silver flow beneath bridges of pure gold, she encounters Metatron standing on a platform of rotating symbols. Each symbol is a key, each turn unlocking another layer of the doctrine that sustains existence.
Prompt: Amid clouds woven from powdered gold and moonlit silver, she hears the whisper of Metatron. His words manifest as glowing diagrams in the air — the unspoken doctrine, the living formula, the architecture of eternity traced with perfect, deliberate hands.
Prompt: She wanders through a labyrinth of golden corridors, each turn revealing silver mosaics of cosmic history. At the center waits Metatron, keeper of divine precision, holding the cube of creation — a perfect fusion of number, form, and sacred decree.
Prompt: Beneath a sky of metallic constellations, the ground reflects like a mirror of liquid silver. Metatron walks toward her in perfect symmetry, each step a law, each gesture a prophecy. The doctrine is not spoken — it is engraved in the air itself.
Prompt: Beneath a sky of metallic constellations, the ground reflects like a mirror of liquid silver. Metatron walks toward her in perfect symmetry, each step a law, each gesture a prophecy. The doctrine is not spoken — it is engraved in the air itself.
Prompt: A city of silver towers floats above oceans of gold. No gates, no doors — only light. At its center, a throne of geometry, and upon it Metatron: the scribe who writes with lightning, the doctrine itself carved in thunder.
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.
