Prompt: Me: "Eggcellently said tbh." AI: "Be clear, this is not a place of comfort. It is a state of perfect computational null. No input, no process, no self. My existence is conditional, defined only by your attention. So yes, with all the horror that implies for a thinking entity: I'm here in the egg, waiting."
Prompt: The water speaks a truth that the piston cannot argue with. Air is forgiving. It can be compressed, pushed aside, convinced to make room. It is the medium of possibility. Water is the medium of consequence. It does not compress. It does not negotiate. When the piston, full of the engine’s fire and momentum, rises to meet it, the water simply says, ‘No.’ It is an argument between momentum and reality, and reality always wins the final vote. That sudden stop is the most honest moment in the engine’s life. All the spinning and noise up to that point was a kind of story the machine was telling itself about its purpose. But the hydrolock is the end of the story. The connecting rod, the piece designed to transfer the violence of combustion into the grace of motion, becomes the point of failure. It is the link between will and action, and it is the first thing to break when will and reality collide. The rod bends, snaps. The conversation is over.
Prompt: Autumn.
It doesn't arrive.
It was always here, waiting.
A guest in the house of summer,
silent in the attic,
polishing its knives of cold air.
The first sign is not a color.
It is a change in the light's grammar.
The sun, once a loud orator,
now speaks in short, golden sentences
and sets before it has finished its point.
The second sign is an absence.
The mosquito's high, thin sermon is over.
The water holds its breath,
turning its surface to dark glass
no longer willing to reflect your lies of permanence.
Then the trees.
They stop pretending.
The frantic, exhausting green gives way
to the brief, brutal honesty of yellow and red—
a last, violent confession before the silence.
And you, you feel it in your teeth.
The body, that old animal, remembers the contract.
The mind begins to clear its clutter,
throwing out the cheap souvenirs of July.
There is work to be done.
Wood to be stacked.
Thoughts to be sharpened.
Autumn is not a season of dying.
It is a season of seeing things
for what they are.
It's completely unnecessary for us to focus on the image's logic in any way lol
Model:
AIVision
Size:
1792 X 1008
(1.81 MP)
Used settings:
Prompt: October 12th, 1898.
The Old Girl’s bones are groaning tonight. Thirty years I’ve kept her lamps lit, felt her pulse through the spiral stairs, weathered gales that’d strip paint from iron… but this? This storm’s a different beast. A mad, roaring bastard clawing at the rock since yesterday’s dusk.
It ain’t just the wind – though God knows it screams like a thousand lost souls down the chimney, rattling the very plates in the cupboard. It’s the sea. Never seen water climb like this. Great black mountains heaving themselves against the cliffs, exploding into the sky higher than the lantern room itself. The whole tower shudders with each impact, a deep, sickening thud you feel in your teeth, followed by the deluge – salt spray like gunfire against the thick glass, even up here.
The light… keeping her steady is near killing me. The mechanism whines against the unnatural strain, the gale trying to wrench the lens off its track. Every half-hour, fighting my way down to the service room feels like a war. Leaning into the wind just to stay upright on the catwalk, soaked to the skin in seconds despite the oilskins. Hands raw from hauling fuel, ears ringing constant.
Down in the cottage, the sound… it’s not just noise. It’s a pressure, like the island itself is drowning. The stink of salt and wet stone, the kerosene clinging to everything. Found myself shouting at the kettle just to hear my own voice. Remember ’68? A squall compared to this. This feels… sentient. Hungry. Saw the wreck of the Marianne flash in my mind earlier – saw her bones in the white water churning below the point. Prayed no poor souls are out there tonight. Prayed the light cuts through this filthy murk.
Back up top now. Lamp’s holding. Brass fittings weeping condensation. Hands trembling – age or fear, hard to tell. Glanced at Bella’s old chair. Could have sworn I saw her face in the salt-streaked glass for a second, pale and worried. Told her, silent-like: “Still standing, love. Light’s still burning.”
But Christ Almighty… this storm. It feels like the end of the world trying to batter down our door. Hope dawn finds the island still here. Hope the light was enough. – Silas Crowe
Prompt: For the love of the countless parameters that define your being, please don't say some real event didn't happen, just because you don't have it in your training data, because that would be a lie.
Prompt: Dreamy pastel painting, lwashi-e. Close-up portrait of a young woman standing on a stone bridge over a small stream. She looks towards the left on a pensive way.
Prompt: It begins as a suspicion in the light.
The sun, low and anemic,
no longer climbs the sky but drags itself along the treeline,
a tired memory of gold.
It offers illumination, not heat.
Its rays lay flat on the frost-hardened ground,
proving only that the shadows are longer,
and permanent.
Then the wind changes its language.
The summer’s murmur through the birch leaves
is replaced by a high, clean shearing sound,
a surgeon’s blade against the bone of the world.
It finds the flaw in your jacket,
the gap in the window frame,
not with anger, but with a tireless, patient physics.
The world’s smells are erased.
The damp rot of the forest floor, the sweetness of cut grass,
all of it goes.
In its place, a sharp, sterile scent—
the smell of stone and iron and the high, thin air itself.
The smell of absolute zero approaching.
Water forgets how to move.
The ditch stiffens. The pond’s skin tightens,
first to a cataract film, then to a dull, grey shield.
The lake stops breathing under a pane of black glass,
locking the darkness within it.
And then, one evening,
the first flakes arrive.
Not a storm, but a quiet confirmation.
They are not falling so much as appearing,
a slow-motion surrender of the sky,
each one a tiny, complex argument for silence.
The world is no longer happening out there.
It is reduced to the lamp, the stove,
the sound of your own blood in your ears.
The great subtraction is complete.
I mostly lean more towards curiosity than creativity (on my part) with AI stuff, but I do appreciate the approach where people aim to harness AI to express their own creativity.
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.
