Prompt: Photorealistic portrait of a beautiful woman with light brown hair and a subtle ginger/red tint, very pale grey eyes, soft matte skin. Cinematic lighting with deep elegant shadows and soft highlights. The background consists of abstract geometric shapes in exclusive matte pastel tones (dusty rose, muted blue, sand). High-end luxury aesthetic, "magic" atmosphere with subtle glowing particles, extremely detailed, 8k.
Pennywise meets Dr. Hannibal Lecter ** (Please read description!)
Model:
Nano Banana Pro
Size:
1500 X 1096
(1.64 MP)
Used settings:
Prompt: The bored-looking cannibal Dr. Hannibal Lecter (The Silence of the Lambs, Anthony Hopkins) with his distinctive iconic brown mask and the evil grinning Pennywise The Dancing Clown (Stephen King's It, Tim Curry) with a red balloon in his hand stand opposite each other.
Fantasy Illustration, Illustration, Fantasy, Horror Illustration, Horror, oil on canvas, oil paints, oil panting, painting, canvas, old masters, masterpiece
Prompt: Extreme wide-angle cinematic shot of a transcendental, boundless lake at deep midnight. The composition is strictly asymmetrical for naturalism: on one side of the frame, exactly two pristine lotus flowers float on the mirror-like black water, positioned at different distances from the lens to create a sense of depth and organic randomness. Across the distant horizon, offset from the center, stands a COLOSSAL ANCIENT OAK TREE of impossible, monumental scale. The oak features a gargantuan, incredibly thick gnarled trunk with hyper-detailed bark textures and wide, sprawling branches.
The sky is a PITCH-BLACK VOID scattered with distinct, sharp, individual bright stars resembling diamonds. ABSOLUTELY NO MILKY WAY, NO GALAXIES, NO NEBULAS, NO COSMIC DUST. Just pure, isolated bright stars against deep obsidian darkness.
The atmosphere is defined by Osho-inspired silence and perfect harmony. NO MOON. The only light source is the starlight itself, casting faint silvery highlights on the edges of the lotus petals and the tree's silhouette. Extreme Low-Key exposure with true obsidian blacks and deep midnight blue tones. Sharp, crystal-clear focus from the veins of the nearest lotus to the distant oak bark. Hyper-realistic, 8k resolution, raw photography style, deep natural shadows, no artificial glow, pure dark serenity.
Prompt: “Moonwater Veins” There’s a hush in her steps, like she’s walking on echoes, threads of moonwater running through her veins. She carries the night the way others carry secrets — close to the ribs, where it warms and aches the same. When she breathes, the shadows lean in to listen, as if her silence is a story they forgot to learn.
Prompt: Silence — After the Final Buzzer
Hyper-realistic close-up, same eye but arena now empty in reflection, seats dim, floor reflecting silence, double exposure illusion shows the last ball rolling to rest, muted tones, soft bloom light, UHD 16K, emotional stillness, moment of reflection and solitude.
Prompt: Silence — After the Final Buzzer
Hyper-realistic close-up, same eye but arena now empty in reflection, seats dim, floor reflecting silence, double exposure illusion shows the last ball rolling to rest, muted tones, soft bloom light, UHD 16K, emotional stillness, moment of reflection and solitude.
Prompt: Silence — After the Final Buzzer
Hyper-realistic close-up, same eye but arena now empty in reflection, seats dim, floor reflecting silence, double exposure illusion shows the last ball rolling to rest, muted tones, soft bloom light, UHD 16K, emotional stillness, moment of reflection and solitude.
Prompt: A small village sleeps beneath a vast, swirling night sky. The stars shimmer like memories, the moon glowing softly above quiet rooftops. Painted in Van Gogh’s emotional impasto and vibrant blues, the scene captures the beauty of solitude and the gentle sadness of silence.
Prompt: Misty evening, willow trees, icy grasses and cattails in front of a large, dull setting sun and a heavy storm front is approaching - front view - digital painting, elegant, extremely detailed, award-winning, sharp quality, swamp background, ink TNT - anatomically correct - full view - photorealistic
Prompt: I reached the canyon at 07:14 local time. The sun, a pale amber orb hanging low in the haze, had just begun to warm the ochre cliffs. I stood at the edge of the plateau for what felt like hours. Below, glowing cyan water traced a path through the ancient stone, shimmering like veins of fire beneath the planet’s skin.
No signs of fauna, sentient or otherwise. Not even the shriek of wind. Only silence, dust, and beauty so profound it felt engineered for contemplation.
This place is called Nirell’s Path on our early charts, named after a philosopher who believed silence was the highest language of the universe. Fitting.
Getting here was not easy. The shuttle’s lateral thrusters choked on the thin particulate atmosphere during descent. I had to recalibrate manually and land blind through three layers of dust clouds. One of the rear panels peeled from heat friction—engineering’s going to kill me when I get back.
The air is breathable, but dry. Chemical scans show high traces of iron oxide and trace amounts of silicates common to glacial formations. The water below is rich in bioluminescent plankton—either native or long-adapted. It glows without heat, and only in response to movement. When the wind stirs across the river’s surface, it lights up like a pulse.
I descended to the lower shelf around noon. Grav is 0.83 Earth norm—enough to remind me I’m still a child of heavier worlds. The rocks are layered horizontally, perfectly stratified, like a natural archive of time itself. I chipped a fragment for analysis: quartz latticework intertwined with something organic, maybe fossilized bacteria or something stranger.
There are no structures here. No ruins. No footprints in the dust. But somehow, it still feels inhabited. Not by a civilization, but by memory. A world that knows it has been seen before and chooses to reveal itself only in part. I found a lone obsidian spire, smoothed by time, resting near the waterline. Likely natural—but its shape was too deliberate, too elegant. Like a punctuation mark from a language I don't know how to read.
A message, maybe.
We explorers come searching for answers, but sometimes all we find are questions too old to ask.
I spent the night near the edge, wrapped in a thermal blanket, staring into the canyon. I didn’t want to leave. Some places don’t need cities or monuments to prove their significance. They simply are. And they wait.
Before I left, I carved a small line into a soft patch of stone—a personal mark. Nothing that will last the millennia. Just something to say: I was here.
As the shuttle rose again into the pale morning light, I looked back at Nirell’s Path, glowing and silent, and felt a strange peace. Maybe this is what we were always meant to find—not answers, but stillness. And awe.
Prompt: A lone figure stands at the center of an immense void, surrounded by fragments of shattered memories floating like glass. Each fragment reflects a different moment — joy, loss, triumph, failure — swirling around in slow motion as if time itself is questioning them. Above, a celestial light breaks through the darkness, illuminating only the person’s face — their eyes filled with both guilt and wonder.
The ground beneath them is cracked but glowing faintly, as if their pain is giving birth to something new. Behind them, faint silhouettes of people fade in and out — representing every path not taken, every life that could have been. The atmosphere feels timeless, almost sacred — like the entire universe has paused to ask a single question: “Why you?”
Mist and faint cosmic dust drift through the air, shimmering in shades of blue, violet, and gold. There’s no clear answer, only emotion — regret, destiny, and strange beauty intertwined. The scene should feel both intimate and vast — the moment when the human soul stands face-to-face with the mystery of existence.
Prompt: In 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: In 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: 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: Oh my god. This thing? This block? It’s not even a block. It’s a scream that got stuck.
It’s metal, yeah, but not smooth. It’s like the surface remembers pain. Like someone punched time and it froze mid-impact. There’s a person in it—in it—not carved, not sculpted, caught. Face twisted, hands reaching, like they were trying to escape the moment itself.
It’s gray, but not boring gray. It’s the kind of gray that feels like silence after something terrible. Cold. Not freezer cold—space cold. Like minus infinity.
Edges are brutal. No softness. No mercy. Shadows cling to it like guilt that won’t let go. It’s heavy. Not just in weight—emotionally heavy. Like if you touched it, you’d feel everything they felt when they got trapped.
And the eyes. Oh god, the eyes. They’re shut, but they burn. Like they’re still alive in there, dreaming in static.
This isn’t a prison. It’s a monument. To fear. To pause. To being almost gone.
Prompt: In a dimly lit, abandoned house, shadows cling to the walls, and a heavy silence envelops the space. An overwhelming sense of loneliness and despair permeates the air, evoking deep unease.
Prompt: Two beings, barely etched into existence, as if spun from stardust and the very fabric of shadows, confronted each other in a silence taut with unseen energies. Their forms shimmered, mirages on the periphery of reality, and caught between them, starkly alone, stood he. His silhouette, a dark and resolute slash, defied the ethereal light emanating from a sphere that hung suspended in the air. This was no mere illumination; it was an invasive radiance, peeling back layers of skin, exposing the raw, intimate core, the secrets yearning for burial.
He felt their gazes, a glacial wind and a searing brand, twinned in their intensity. No words were spoken, only a suffocating expectancy. His breath hitched, the air thickening around him like viscous honey, each inhale a labored conquest.
"Do you know why you are here?" one whispered, a voice like the chime of distant, otherworldly bells, an echo resonating from a forgotten dimension.
He offered no reply. His lips, a tight, bloodless line, betrayed the tremor in his hands, yet his gaze remained unbroken, fixed on these beings who embodied his destiny, his damnation, his…
"You cannot run," the second one purred, a voice of silken menace, the threat woven into its very texture capable of icing the blood in his veins.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the darkness offered no sanctuary. They were there, branded onto the backs of his eyelids, omnipresent. In his thoughts, his heart, his very soul.
"I am not afraid," he rasped, the words a fragile exhalation, a whisper swallowed by the vast emptiness.
One of the beings drifted forward, its form flickering like a candle flame caught in a draft.
"You lie," it stated, the words an inexorable touch, a violation that resonated deep within his bones.
His fists clenched, feeling how…
Prompt: It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboatbobbing sea.
Prompt: A woman sits alone in a dimly lit room, her silhouette softly illuminated by the faint glow of a single lamp. She perches on the edge of an old wooden chair, her posture tense yet resigned, her eyes fixed on an antique rotary telephone resting on a small, worn table before her. The phone, with its coiled cord and polished black surface, stands silent, a relic of hope frozen in time. Her hands, delicately clasped in her lap, betray a subtle tremble, as if clinging to the fading echo of a promise. The room around her is heavy with stillness, the air thick with the weight of unspoken words and unfulfilled longing. Shadows dance faintly on the walls, mirroring the fleeting memories that haunt her. She waits, her heart tethered to the possibility of a call that will never come, each passing second stretching into an eternity of quiet despair.
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.
5d
