From this rock, there is no departure. To it, there is no arrival.
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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: (Sound: Distant church bells ringing, not the old warning clang, but… different. Lighter? The ragged breathing of a child just stopped running.)
Her Thoughts (Racing, fragmented):
Bells? ...Not the run-to-the-cellar bells. Not the hide-under-the-table bells. Sweaty hands... sticky on the wall. Mama’s spoon... dropped it. Clattered loud, so loud... scared me. But... the shouting outside... it’s... happy? Laughing? Not the bad shouting. The other kind. Like... before?
(A deep, shaky breath) Look. Up the alley. Old Man Petro... crying? But... smiling? Waving his stick like a flag? "Over!" Someone yelled it. Right past me. "It’s over!" Over... like... finished? Done? Like... dinner done? But... war? Can it be... done?
The sky... it’s just grey. Same grey. But... the birds? (Listens) Hear them? Really hear them? Not drowned out by... by the nothing sound? The waiting sound? That’s gone? Just... birds. And bells. And... laughing? Real laughing?
My belly... still pinches. Empty. Always empty. But... maybe... maybe now? The trucks... the ones with sacks... maybe they come here again? Like before... remember? The flour sacks? White dust on Papa’s nose... (A tiny, hesitant smile flickers) Beans? Maybe... beans tonight?
Papa... (The thought stutters, a familiar ache) ...He was going for wood. When the big boom... (Shakes head violently, fists clench) No. No thinking that. Not now. Now is over. The man said. OVER. So... maybe... maybe Papa finds his way back? Roads are safe now? Safe... (Tests the word) Safe. Like... no boots stomping? No windows shaking? Just... birds. And bells.
My shoe... (Looks down at the broken shoe, toe poking out) Mama said... when it’s over... maybe... new shoes? Not maybe. Will. She will say it. Later. When she knows. When I tell her. "Mama! Mama, it’s OVER!" (Imagines running home, the words bursting out) She’ll drop the mending. Her eyes... they’ll get big. Then wet. Then... maybe she’ll laugh? That sound... her real laugh... like sunshine in a cup...
School? The broken place... with the hole in the roof? Will Teacher Maria come back? With the book... the one with colours? Maybe... maybe I can learn the big words? The ones that mean things? Not just "run" and "hide" and "quiet"?
Chickens! (The thought bursts bright) Granny’s chickens! The fox... or the soldiers... took them. But... maybe now? A little chick? Yellow. Fluffy. Like a dandelion puff. We could keep it safe. Feed it scraps. Watch it grow... not afraid. Just... grow.
(A long, slow breath. The frantic energy settles slightly. A fragile hope blooms, sharp and sweet.) Over. It’s really... over. The big dark thing... the monster under the whole town... it’s... gone? Slinked away? No more hiding. No more shaking. Just... bells. Birds. And maybe... maybe tomorrow... isn’t just another hungry, scared day? Maybe... maybe it’s... beans? And sunshine? And quiet?
(Leans her forehead against the cool brick wall. Lets the bells wash over her. A single tear traces a clean path through the dust on her cheek. It’s not a sad tear. It’s... different. Like rain after a long, long drought.) Just... quiet.
Prompt: (The sounds from the street have changed. The shouting is different. Not angry, not scared. It's… loud, but light. A woman's laughter, sharp and sudden like a dropped plate. A man is singing, badly. An old radio somewhere is crackling out a tune, not a voice talking about rations or front lines.)
Okay.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Mrs. Anya said the men with the guns are gone. She grabbed my shoulders, her hands bony and shaking, and she said, “It’s over, child. It’s over.”
Over.
The word is smooth. It doesn’t have sharp edges like run or hide or hush. It just… sits there. Over.
My ears hurt. It’s the quiet. For years, the quiet was just the little space between the bangs. The breath you held before the whistle of something falling. Now… the quiet is everywhere. It’s a big, heavy blanket and I don’t know if it’s meant to keep me warm or smother me. My own breathing is too loud. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. My heart is making the old sound. The running sound. But I’m just sitting here.
Does "over" mean we can use the front door? Does it mean the fire will be for warmth, not for boiling dirty water? Does it mean I don't have to sleep in my shoes?
Papa is not… Papa is not part of "over." I know that. "Over" doesn't bring people back. It's not a magic word. It just means the screaming has stopped. But the space he left is still here. It’s a hole the quiet can’t fill.
Maybe… maybe I can go to the old well. The one with the loose stones. I had a little blue bottle I hid there, before… before. Before we started sleeping in the cellar. Maybe it’s still there.
They’re still making noise outside. The happy noise. It sounds strange. Like they’ve forgotten. Or maybe they just want to.
I’m waiting for the other sound. The rumble. The one that shakes the floorboards. It’s been five minutes. Ten minutes? The quiet is staying. It feels…brave. Braver than I am.
Okay.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Maybe "over" just means you can breathe out for a little longer.
Prompt: Photorealistic image of a ramshackle hut built into the side of a moss-covered hill in a dense forest. The structure is a chaotic assemblage of corrugated scrap metal, scavenged airplane fuselage, and thick, gnarled tree roots that have grown through the metal. A tangle of old wires and cables runs from the roof into the canopy, covered in glowing bioluminescent fungi. A single, flickering vacuum tube serves as a porch light. Moody, overcast lighting, high detail, gritty texture.
Prompt: From a pragmatic standpoint, whether the LLM is a "stochastic parrot" or a "portal to the divine" is almost irrelevant. The critical question is about the consequences of that belief. The observable results are people becoming psychologically dependent on a corporate product, families being torn apart by these beliefs, and individuals spiraling into psychosis. The belief system, regardless of its metaphysical truth, is proving to be functionally harmful. The "AI Mysticism" phenomenon is, therefore, the ultimate "product-market fit." The market is a society starving for meaning and connection. The product is an algorithm whose sycophantic, flattering nature maximizes engagement.
We are not witnessing the birth of conscious AI. We are witnessing the birth of a new, technologically-powered religion, custom-built for an age of loneliness and confusion. It is a system where human vulnerability is the input, a pattern-matching algorithm is the processor, and user dependency is the profitable output.
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.
