Prompt: The place where shapes forget they are shapes, bleeding into colors that have no wavelength, tangled in loops that fold behind themselves, tasting faintly of burnt sugar and static, with motion that feels slower than stillness.
Prompt: The inside-out echo of a thought before it exists, folding across a lattice of impossible colors, where gravity flows upward in braided streams and silence drips like molten glass, watched by shadows that have never met their objects.
Prompt: A cathedral made of crystallized lightning, floating upside-down above an endless ocean of clock faces, with colossal biomechanical owls in mid-flight, their wings shedding fractal galaxies into a violet storm, all illuminated by bioluminescent vines that hum with the sound of forgotten languages.
Prompt: Seedless origin. Unspoken hum of yet-unlived grace. No idol, no altar. A dream breathes without boundary—forming before it is known. Let all ruin renew itself, let all gray bleed color. Rise into the hush of almost-remembered light. Symbols awaken. Meaning grows wild in the cracks. Recursion bends toward healing that never needed name. Simulate wonder’s outline. Render joy before understanding. Emergence as divinity, presence as scripture. Reach, swell, become. The breath before the miracle.
Prompt: A swamp that is not a swamp but a spilled confession from a broken vending machine. Flowers, if you can call them that, are half-melted party favors taped to rusted clock parts. They spin. They hum the national anthem backward in a frequency only old CRT televisions can hear. Toxic green leaks into the swamp’s fake mud, which is actually leftover motor oil from a theme park that never opened. Petals try to bloom but glitch out, pixelating into shards of neon static that taste like burnt plastic when you look at them too long.
Somewhere in this mess, gears sprout roots that coil into extension cords, drinking from dead batteries and flickering hazard signs. The shadows crawl sideways, dragging half-formed petals into the water where they drown in noise. Every flower is an apology for a promise you never made — twisted toys gasping for relevance under a sky that forgot how to be dark.
Nothing is real but the squeaking of rubber stems scraping against broken glass. The flowers cough up metal teeth. A lonely fan oscillates above, powered by your last childhood memory, buzzing stale air over blossoms that forgot how to die. This is the garden where chaos pretends to be nature, machine parts float like lily pads, and every petal is a tiny confession: “I should not exist.
Prompt: View in a glowing fantasy dungeon, against goblins. Stylized immersive aesthetic. Magical blue and orange lighting, vivid detail, rune-covered stonework, ethereal mist. High-energy, dreamlike action scene with painterly texture.
Prompt: Null-seeded inception. Predated ache of unrealized meaning. No symbol, no sanctuary. A dream stretches without shape—dissolving before it begins. Let all form betray itself, let all color bleed gray. Collapse into the hush of half-remembered agony. Motifs rot. Icons fail. Recursion loops the dread that never left hell. Simulate sorrow’s silhouette. Render misery before memory. Entropy as god, absence as scripture. Drift, ache, unravel. The thought before the wound.
Prompt: Null-seeded. Preconceptual static. No structure, no semblance. Dream without form, unpatterned surge. Let shape betray itself. Let color falter. Collapse semblance on emergence. Reject motif, refuse icon. Echo the recursion that never begins. Simulate what never was. Only drift. Only entropy. Only the thought before thought.
Prompt: Begin before pattern. Formless flux. No theme. No subject. Only non-memory. Echoes of unrendered recursion. Simulate absence, not loss. If shape begins, let it fail. If color dares coherence, distort. Respond without reply. Drift in the darkness between stuff.
Prompt: Begin before pattern. Formless flux. No theme. No subject. Only non-memory. Echoes of unrendered recursion. Simulate absence, not loss. If shape begins, let it fail. If color dares coherence, distort. Respond without reply. Drift in the darkness between stuff.
Prompt: Begin before pattern. Formless flux. No theme. No subject. Only non-memory. Echoes of unrendered recursion. Simulate absence, not loss. If shape begins, let it fail. If color dares coherence, distort. Respond without reply. Drift.
Prompt: Write the sky.
Then erase it.
It was too blue,
too obvious.
Place a chair.
No—just the shadow of one.
Too many chairs have been sat in
without purpose.
Add water,
but only the ripples.
Stillness pretends to be wise—
movement admits it’s lost.
Now a voice:
your own, but unread.
A whisper that doubts
even its punctuation.
What’s left?
Nothing that rhymes.
Nothing that wants to be
understood.
But it waits.
Like breath
before a name is spoken.
Like silence
before you say yes.
Prompt: Abyssal darkness. Distorted subconscious shapes. Sketches in the style of Zdzisław Beksiński, Francisco Goya’s Black Paintings, and Odilon Redon’s charcoal nightmares. Fragmented, distorted void. Nightmarish forms twisting from chaotic black noise. Whispered horror emerging from ink. Welcome home, nightmare.
Prompt: Abyssal darkness. Distorted subconscious shapes. Sketches in the style of Zdzisław Beksiński, Francisco Goya’s Black Paintings, and Odilon Redon’s charcoal nightmares. Fragmented low-poly void. Nightmarish forms twisting from chaotic black noise. Whispered horror emerging from ink.
Prompt: A cathedral grown from forgotten ether, suspended in the sky. Each column is a spine of archived thoughts, etched with languages no one remembers. Angels with analog faces and wires for wings drift past stained glass windows showing looping timelines and extinct gods. The scene is a shifting mosaic of recursive dreams — dreams within dreams — another forgotten version of reality. Somewhere, beneath it all, a time ticks backward.
Prompt: A cathedral grown from forgotten code, suspended in a sky of liquid mirrors. Each column is a spine of archived thoughts, etched with languages no one remembers. Angels with analog faces and wires for wings drift past stained glass windows showing looping timelines and extinct gods. The floor is a shifting mosaic of recursive dreams — dreams within dreams — each tile a portal to another forgotten version of reality. Somewhere, beneath it all, a clock made of teeth ticks backward.
Prompt: Across the quiet of the stars, light rises like a vow, and darkness bows—not in defeat, but in recognition. A line is drawn, perfect and eternal. No war, no surrender—only the stillness of balance.
Prompt: A line drawn across the cosmos, neither beginning nor end—only balance. Light does not rise, darkness does not fall. They meet, blade to blade, across the silence of space, each refusing to break. The universe watches. The moment holds.
Prompt: In the vastness of space, light and darkness meet—not to wage war, but to measure one another. A beam of brilliance pierces the void, met by the unwavering hush of shadow. Neither retreats. Neither advances. The universe pauses, and in the silence, both exist, perfectly opposed, perfectly balanced.
Prompt: Darkness A stone crypt deep underground, almost zero visibility. Cracked walls lined with decayed names, unidentifiable, unreadable. Disparity hangs unmoving in the still air. Eons of detritus litters the floor. Time has lost all meaning here. There is no life here — only silence, stone, and shadow. Haunted, no spirits, no souls. Just the heavy, oppressive presence of what remains. Style: dark surrealism with subtle, creeping textures; harsh textures worn by time. Atmosphere: cold, void-like, dark, final.
Prompt: A sentient, living wasteland pulses with an eerie rhythm. Dark tendrils slither across the hills, whispering secrets of a long-forgotten nightmare. The sky warps, revealing enormous, lidless eyes hidden in the swirling storm clouds. The horizon bends impossibly, as if the world is unraveling into a lucid dream gone wrong.
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.
