Prompt: Generate an image of a baker in his traditional bakery kitchen before dawn. The baker is an older man with a gentle expression, wearing a flour-dusted apron, and he is kneading dough on a wooden table. His hands are prominently featured, showing the texture of the dough and the flour, with visible lines and wrinkles that hint at years of experience. The kitchen is warm and cozy, illuminated by the soft, golden glow of a large brick oven in the background. Shelves are lined with freshly baked loaves of bread, and a sleeping tabby cat is curled up on a nearby chair, adding a touch of quiet whimsy. Through a small window, the dark, sleeping village is visible, with just a faint hint of light on the horizon suggesting the approaching dawn. The scene should feel serene, timeless, and meditative, capturing the baker’s quiet dedication and the simple, profound beauty of his daily ritual. Use a realistic art style, with rich textures—like the roughness of the dough, the warmth of the oven light, and the softness of the cat’s fur—and a warm, inviting atmosphere that evokes the scent of baking bread.
Prompt: The Baker's Hands.
Before dawn,
when the village sleeps
and even the stray cats are dreaming of cream,
his hands begin.
Not thinking, not planning,
just knowing.
The weight of the flour,
the cool silk of water,
the sleepy, yielding sigh of the yeast.
Years etched into the lines of his palms,
a map of loaves baked,
lives nourished,
a silent history of hunger and satisfaction.
He kneads,
a rhythmic push and pull,
a conversation without words
between muscle and dough.
The oven breathes hot,
a fiery heart in the cool kitchen.
And the scent,
oh, the scent,
a promise of warmth,
of comfort,
of the simple, profound joy
of breaking bread.
He doesn't think of poetry,
or philosophy,
or the grand sweep of time.
He just bakes.
And in that baking,
something ancient,
something holy,
is made new again.
Even.
Every.
Single.
Day.
Prompt: The air bites, sharp as a blade,
a stillness so deep it hums,
snow blankets the earth like a sigh,
endless, white, a canvas of cold.
Pines stand solemn,
their branches bowing under frost,
whispering secrets to the wind—
a low howl that dances through the dusk.
The sky, a pale shroud,
swallows the sun whole,
leaving only a faint glow,
a promise tucked beneath the horizon.
Lakes freeze, mirrors of ice,
reflecting the silence,
the weight of a season
that cradles both beauty and burden.
In the distance,
a flicker—
auroras weave their threads of light,
green and violet stitching the night,
a quiet gift for those who endure.
Boots crunch, breath clouds,
time slows to the rhythm of falling flakes,
Finland’s winter holds you,
unyielding, tender, vast.
Prompt: The Baker's Hands.
Before dawn,
when the village sleeps
and even the stray cats are dreaming of cream,
his hands begin.
Not thinking, not planning,
just knowing.
The weight of the flour,
the cool silk of water,
the sleepy, yielding sigh of the yeast.
Years etched into the lines of his palms,
a map of loaves baked,
lives nourished,
a silent history of hunger and satisfaction.
He kneads,
a rhythmic push and pull,
a conversation without words
between muscle and dough.
The oven breathes hot,
a fiery heart in the cool kitchen.
And the scent,
oh, the scent,
a promise of warmth,
of comfort,
of the simple, profound joy
of breaking bread.
He doesn't think of poetry,
or philosophy,
or the grand sweep of time.
He just bakes.
And in that baking,
something ancient,
something holy,
is made new again.
Even.
Every.
Single.
Day.
Prompt: In the realm of upside-down logic, tea leaves read the fortune of a sentient, opera-singing teapot. A parade of miniature elephants, wearing top hats made of cheese, marched through a forest of candy canes and lollipops. The moon, feeling adventurous, decided to take a stroll among the stars, leaving the night sky to be lit by a disco ball. A group of intellectual jellyfish gathered to discuss quantum physics in a library made entirely of bubbles. Meanwhile, a time-traveling dinosaur, named Sir Reginald, attended a ball in the Victorian era, where he danced the waltz with a cactus in a gown. In this nonsensical universe, rainbows are drawn by unicorns with colored pencils, and clouds are made of cotton candy, floating in a sky of lemonade.
Prompt: A cozy living room with a normal-sized person reading a book next to an absurdly oversized, antique-looking fan, warm lighting, realistic painting style.
Apparently AI is not a huge fan of blades (especially windmill blades, btw - try it)
Model:
AIVision
Size:
1792 X 1008
(1.81 MP)
Used settings:
Prompt: A cozy living room with a normal-sized person reading a book next to an absurdly oversized, antique-looking fan, warm lighting, realistic painting style.
Prompt: A serene, ethereal figure, Ilmatar, the Air Spirit, floats in an endless ocean of dark teal and indigo waters, her flowing hair merging with the waves. Above her, a majestic golden-eyed water bird soars, wings outstretched, carrying a nest of glowing eggs. One egg cracks dramatically on Ilmatar’s knee, its fragments bursting into a cosmic explosion: the yolk radiates as a vibrant sun, the white transforms into a luminous moon, and shell shards morph into a starlit sky and rugged earth emerging from the waters. Surround the scene with swirling mist, celestial clouds, and shimmering light rays piercing through the chaos. Below, verdant landforms and vegetation rise from the depths.
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.
