Prompt: In the depths of collapsing dimensions, where even light hesitates to reach, Suleiman stands — tall, broad-shouldered, and forged from the very essence of shadow. No radiant aura surrounds him; no glimmer of energy escapes. Everything around him is swallowed by a living darkness, thick and deliberate, coiling around his body like serpents born from the void.
His eyes… two pitch-black abysses — not a color, but an event.
Gazing into them feels like staring into a singularity that devours sound, time, and certainty. Even D-rank demons tremble when those void-eyes fall upon them. Anyone who meets his gaze feels a quiet pull at their soul, as if something inside him is measuring them.
His skin carries a deeper tone now, as if a second layer of shadow has fused with his flesh. His muscles are precise and defined, but there is a subtle wrongness to them — a sense that his body is no longer entirely bound by mortal laws.
The darkness around him is not still. It breathes.
Ripples of shadow open and fold silently, and at times — especially in battle — faint silhouettes of hands and tendrils stretch out from his own shadow, reaching, clawing, then slipping back into nothingness.
His great axe, Gatebreaker, is more than a weapon. It is a reservoir of pure night. The blade gleams with a blackness that reflects no light, its edges dripping faint trails of shadow-smoke. Whenever he swings it, a deep, resonant thump echoes through the air — like the heartbeat of an ancient beast awakening beneath the world.
His power does not erupt; it silences.
When he moves, the air seems to vanish.
When he strikes, the earth folds inward.
When he releases his Darkness Concept, the stars themselves flicker — as if afraid.
Behind him, bound yet free, floats the form of his core — now a dark, spiritual entity with a thin, feminine silhouette and eyes like silver fractures in obsidian. She does not speak; she communicates through sensation, emotion, and instinct, amplifying his control over the void.
When Suleiman walks, the world grows quiet.
When he looks, reality tightens.
And when he chooses to fight…
even the ancient creatures of the abyss understand that darkness is not the enemy of light —
it is the enemy of existence itself.
Prompt: In the depths of collapsing dimensions, where even light hesitates to reach, Suleiman stands — tall, broad-shouldered, and forged from the very essence of shadow. No radiant aura surrounds him; no glimmer of energy escapes. Everything around him is swallowed by a living darkness, thick and deliberate, coiling around his body like serpents born from the void.
His eyes… two pitch-black abysses — not a color, but an event.
Gazing into them feels like staring into a singularity that devours sound, time, and certainty. Even D-rank demons tremble when those void-eyes fall upon them. Anyone who meets his gaze feels a quiet pull at their soul, as if something inside him is measuring them.
His skin carries a deeper tone now, as if a second layer of shadow has fused with his flesh. His muscles are precise and defined, but there is a subtle wrongness to them — a sense that his body is no longer entirely bound by mortal laws.
The darkness around him is not still. It breathes.
Ripples of shadow open and fold silently, and at times — especially in battle — faint silhouettes of hands and tendrils stretch out from his own shadow, reaching, clawing, then slipping back into nothingness.
His great axe, Gatebreaker, is more than a weapon. It is a reservoir of pure night. The blade gleams with a blackness that reflects no light, its edges dripping faint trails of shadow-smoke. Whenever he swings it, a deep, resonant thump echoes through the air — like the heartbeat of an ancient beast awakening beneath the world.
His power does not erupt; it silences.
When he moves, the air seems to vanish.
When he strikes, the earth folds inward.
When he releases his Darkness Concept, the stars themselves flicker — as if afraid.
Behind him, bound yet free, floats the form of his core — now a dark, spiritual entity with a thin, feminine silhouette and eyes like silver fractures in obsidian. She does not speak; she communicates through sensation, emotion, and instinct, amplifying his control over the void.
When Suleiman walks, the world grows quiet.
When he looks, reality tightens.
And when he chooses to fight…
even the ancient creatures of the abyss understand that darkness is not the enemy of light —
it is the enemy of existence itself.
Prompt: Physicists known as the Orchard Wardens deploy self-calibrating reactors across cosmic distances, each device tuning charge, mass, and Planck intervals into perfect relational harmony—an orchard of fixed constants blooming across the universe. The scene unfolds within a colossal starless expanse, where reactors float in a lattice of graviton lensing halos and faint volumetric code glyphs. Each reactor occupies a calibrated position within the observable range, suspended in void backdrop isolation, linked by invisible ratios that bind physics itself. A stillness permeates the void—tense, anticipatory, mathematically sacred. Every distant reactor glows with identical resonance, as if the cosmos is holding its breath. Reality feels tuned like a string drawn to perfect pitch. The moment thrums with inevitability: harmony must reveal its cost. Wardens activate the Orchard’s synchronizer arrays; reactors emit elevated geometry, hard light geometry, and glyph light from their cores. Ratios settle. Mass curves tighten. Charge symmetry locks. Across the universe, reactors begin reporting identical results before any signal is transmitted—Planck-scale truth folding spacetime into coherence. Epic scale, cosmic surrealism, disciplined speculars, volumetric haze, radiant gradient haze, dramatic perspective, wormhole distortions, ethereal palette, hard surface detailing, heroic framing. The image blends Mead-like structural logic with Moebius-tempered austerity and a cosmic orchestral color field. As the Orchard reaches full harmony, the synchronized reactors form a pattern only visible from outside spacetime—a perfect geometry encoded across the universe. It is the first proof that constants can sing, and that the song has already begun.
--mod cosmic surrealism, --mod volumetric haze, --mod radiant gradient haze, --mod elevated geometry, --mod hard light geometry, --mod disciplined speculars, --mod epic scale, --mod glyph light, --mod volumetric code glyphs, --mod graviton lensing halo, --mod wormhole distortions, --mod heroic framing, --mod dramatic perspective, --mod radiant gradient, --mod ethereal palette, --mod void backdrop isolation, --mod holo-lattice illumination, --mod light volume, --mod worm’s eye perspective lock
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.
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.
4w
