Prompt: A person sleeping on a floating bed suspended in mid-air over an endless desert, beneath the bed a black reflective pool showing a faceless mask instead of a reflection, soft desaturated colors, surreal and somber tone, detailed painting in the style of Salvador Dalí, evoking loneliness and emptiness.
Prompt: Create A black sun fractal with a background of dark black space with some bright blue stars shimmering through a colorful nebula veil Space Art,Fractal Art, HD-Resolution, Vivid Colors.Dynamic Colors
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: A glowing, hand‑drawn sigil suspended in a dark star‑speckled void — a circular shape woven from silver threads, with faint fractal wings branching out like moth wings, and a small star hidden at its center. The lines should look like ancient ink glowing faintly, soft and ethereal rather than sharp, as if drawn with moonlight on velvet. Around it, faint mist or cosmic dust drifting, hinting at a secret safe place. The whole image feels like a cross between a rune, a moth, and a constellation — a protective emblem called ‘Asterveil.’
Prompt: A cathedral of shattered moons drifts through the void, its spires cracked yet radiant with lingering light. Within its hollow nave, syllables of gold drip from unseen vaults, pooling as molten runes on the broken floor, while silver vapors coil through the fractured arches like sentient smoke. They gather above the altar, fusing into a cube that burns without heat, a crown without weight. Metatron rises beneath it, his form woven from equations, his gaze holding the gravity of stars. As the cube spins, it casts lattices of law across the ruins, binding the broken moons back into orbit. The cathedral hums, the void listens, and the doctrine breathes again, reborn from ruin into orde
Prompt: A cathedral of shattered moons drifts through the void, its spires cracked yet radiant with lingering light. Within its hollow nave, syllables of gold drip from unseen vaults, pooling as molten runes on the broken floor, while silver vapors coil through the fractured arches like sentient smoke. They gather above the altar, fusing into a cube that burns without heat, a crown without weight. Metatron rises beneath it, his form woven from equations, his gaze holding the gravity of stars. As the cube spins, it casts lattices of law across the ruins, binding the broken moons back into orbit. The cathedral hums, the void listens, and the doctrine breathes again, reborn from ruin into orde
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: 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: "A vast, endless black void stretches in all directions, with no horizon, no up or down — only eternal darkness. Suspended in this infinite abyss are unfathomable entities: twisted, colossal forms that defy logic, their geometry shifting in impossible ways. Some resemble decaying celestial bodies with eyes that open and close like black holes; others are serpentine masses of stars and bone, coiling silently through the dark. Whispers, like static made of meaning, radiate from the void — not in sound, but as a feeling of being watched by the universe itself. A lone human figure floats helplessly, dwarfed by the scale, expression twisted in awe and terror. All around them, the void breathes — and something ancient, cold, and indifferent begins to stir. Use a palette of void-black, deep purples, starlight silvers, and sickly greens. The atmosphere is oppressive, silent, and overwhelming, evoking the existential dread of realizing the self is insignificant, fragile, and utterly alone in a cosmos that was never meant to be understood."
An Astronaut’s Tale #5 - Sitting on Top of The Cosmos - Staring Into the Void
Model:
AIVision
Size:
2304 X 2304
(5.31 MP)
Used settings:
Prompt: Show a visceral scene in which an astronaut plunges past the event horizon of a black hole and slips into a transcendental state. The astronaut sees the slow, elastic stretching of time and the sudden collapse of all earthly frames of reference. Psychedelic lights, impossible lattices of color and sound, unfurl across the void, not as simple stars but as living geometries that whisper a memory of mathematics and music. The astronaut’s inner voice negotiates with fragments of childhood, old regrets, and cosmic equations; language unravels into symbols, then into a silence so full it hurts. Unspeakable visions at the edge of comprehension, form that refuse ordinary names. Mystical and otherworldly atmosphere. Epic SF Masterpiece.
Prompt: The void splits, releasing a rain of golden embers and silver ashes. They spiral upward, fusing into Metatron’s crown — a cube that glows with infinite faces. Each face turns, binding new constellations into law.
Prompt: A wheel of fire turns in the void, each spoke engraved in silver letters, each rim cast in gold. As it spins, time itself bends. At the center, Metatron speaks without sound: “The doctrine is motion.
Prompt: A wheel of fire turns in the void, each spoke engraved in silver letters, each rim cast in gold. As it spins, time itself bends. At the center, Metatron speaks without sound: “The doctrine is motion.
Seraphina: Ember of Defiance: A Light's Last Stand
Model:
DaVinci2
Size:
1152 X 864
(1.00 MP)
Used settings:
Prompt: Stepping onto the Grand Balcony, Seraphina felt the chill of the encroaching void on her skin. She was all that was left—the final ember of a dying bloodline. Closing her eyes, she reached out, not with her hands, but with her very soul. She pulled on the fading sunlight, on the residual warmth stored in the city's golden stones, and on the fiery resolve burning within her own heart.
The power answered her call. It was a searing, agonizing symphony, crackling to life in her palms—a miniature sun, a storm of raw creation. This was not a spell of attack, but of defiance. A declaration. As she gathered the light, she braced herself for the cost she knew it would demand.
Prompt: Masterwork oil painting on canvas in the style of Peter Gric and Richard Dadd, featuring a woman wearing a loose white robe which is subtly infused with mycelium thread patterns and fine roots, caught in a restless wind. She stands alone in an expansive white desert with sparsely scattered, oddly shaped rock formations, sand curling at her ankles. Her tousled hair sweeps across her face, echoing the storm-like atmosphere. Above, the sky menaces with layered greys, blues, and whites, a faint sun barely piercing the thick storm clouds. The composition evokes the sparse, futuristic environments of Simon Stålenhag and the intricate surrealism of Aubrey Beardsley, with atmospheric tension reminiscent of Ash Thorp’s visual style. The result is a striking scene of quiet isolation, textured depth, and haunting stillness.
Prompt: Anhedonia, brought on by completion of long term projects, is like a penalty for success. The task complete, meaning and direction is stripped away, leaving a void of purpose in the mind.
Prompt: Anhedonia, brought on by completion of long term projects, is like a penalty for success. The task complete, meaning and direction is stripped away, leaving a void of purpose in the mind.
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.
11d
