சாமியானாமானந்தகள்

Nobody loves you when nobody loves you Part 2

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 2784 X 2960 (8.24 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Keep as is
  • Using base image: Yes

Should I Ask The Real Amaunet How She Feels About This? :)

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 2880 X 2880 (8.29 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: The Unnoticed One The Twice-Baked Daughter The Girl of Blue Eyes The Hidden Amunet The Vessel of Fallen Wings The Whisper Beneath the Veil The Black Halo The Moon of Ruined Angels The Keeper of Forgotten Names The Queen of Broken Oaths The Daughter of the Last Temple The Hierophant of Ashes The Walker Among Ruins The Painted Mask The Cat of the Underworld The Cracked Reflection The Weeper of Black Tears The Lady of Two Shadows The Fallen Star Bride The Devourer of Prophecies The Mother of Empty Thrones The Angel-Eater The Silent Apocalypse The Crowned Heretic The Face in the Dust The Dark Seraph The Widow of Heaven The Black-Winged Empress The Harbinger of Dust and Fire The Lady of the End Days The Keeper of the Final Gate The Bride of the Abyss The Queen of Fallen Angels The Mother of Evil Amunet Revealed The Last Light Before Darkness
  • Using base image: Yes

Time Keeps on Slipping Into the Future

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1776 X 1064 (1.89 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Keep as is
  • Using base image: Yes

THE OBSIDIAN BUTTERFLY, WIFE OF THE SMOKING MIRROR

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1120 X 1688 (1.89 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Keep as is
  • Using base image: Yes

What a Fool I Have Been

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Pro)

• Size: 1568 X 2352 (3.69 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: NOTHING TO LOSE. EVERYTHING TO SEE. THE PATH IS OPEN. WHERE YOU GOING, FOOL? I DON’T KNOW. PLEASURE! TAKE IT. IT’S ALL YOURS. IS IT? POWER! RESPECT! YOU COULD HAVE IT ALL. AT WHAT COST? SUCCESS FOLLOW ME. I’D RATHER FOLLOW MYSELF. WHOOPS. GET UP. KEEP GOING. EVERY STEP IS A CHOICE. FEAR LOVE TRUST THE LEAP. THE JOURNEY IS THE HOME. WHAT A BEAUTIFUL TRIP
  • Using base image: Yes

Zebadri’s Prompt: சாமிகள் getting ready to fix it

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1232 X 1536 (1.89 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Zdzisław Beksiński Picasso naive art Henri Matisse Alex Grey Andy Warhol Paul Klee Wassily Kandinsky Otto Dix Paul Cezanne Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Tim Burton graffiti Johannes Vermeer Francis Bacon Max Ernst Pino Daeni Jasper Johns Egon Schiele Mondrian Georgia O'Keeffe M.C. Escher Yuko Shimizu Joan Miró Louis Wain Victo Ngai Enki Bilal naoto hattori art brut Odilon Redon Ohara Koson Kazimir Malevich milo manara Jean-Michel Basquiat Ernst Fuchs Raoul Dufy abstract expressionism Ray Caesar Roberto Matta Niko Pirosmani Piero della Francesca Duy Huynh Francisco de Zurbaran Chaim Soutine neo-surrealism Adam Martinakis Arshile Gorky rauschenberg Jean Babtiste Monge Tanya Shatseva Francesco Clemente Bridget Bate Tichenor José Clemente Orozco fnord Mio Asahi zebadri El Anatsui Faith47 Psychosomatic surrealism Gayane Khachaturian Mimmo Rotella Horace Pippin Soey Milk Squeak Carnwath Janice Sung Kupkarina Psychedelic Mannerism
  • Using base image: Yes

Before The Cranes Showed Up The Clouds Looked Like Mountains

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Pro)

• Size: 2592 X 1440 (3.73 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Keep as is
  • Using base image: Yes

What Mannequins Are Up To After Hours

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1688 X 1120 (1.89 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Keep as is
  • Using base image: Yes

L’Omicidio della Dolce Vita

• Model: Grok

• Size: 1920 X 1920 (3.69 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Keep as is
  • Using base image: Yes

Museum of Bad Art

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Pro)

• Size: 2352 X 3520 (8.28 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: UNDERGROUND COMIC PAGE in 12 vertical panels, full-page layout, thick black borders between panels, absolutely no panel numbers anywhere, no text, no captions, no speech bubbles. A blank barn-red 40-pixel header strip across the very top of the page. Dark underground comix style mixed , detailed ink crosshatching, muted but rich colors, distressed paper texture. Panel showing glowing naïve painting of Bigfoot standing on a hill among pine trees beneath an impossible turquoise-orange sunset. Panel showing pompous bald museum curator in green plaid jacket admiring the framed painting in a gallery. Panel showing close-up of curator laughing smugly with red bow tie and greasy expression. Panel showing curator outside strange museum with eye-symbol banner, welcoming crowd dramatically. Panel showing curator proudly presenting awkward outsider paintings including clowns, aliens, strange folk art. Panel showing confused visitors emotionally staring at the Bigfoot painting, some saddened or mesmerized. Panel showing curator furious and pointing upward while silently ranting. Panel showing garbage truck dumping the Bigfoot painting among discarded paintings and junk at night. Panel showing Bigfoot in moonlit landfill discovering the discarded painting among trash piles and raccoons. Panel showing Bigfoot carefully repainting the artwork with brushes and jars of paint beside him. Panel showing forest animals gathered around Bigfoot as he paints outdoors at sunset, deer, rabbits, raccoons, owls watching peacefully. Final panel showing angry curator sitting inside metal garbage can in alley surrounded by flies and trash while distant sunset glows behind him. Visual mood: tragicomic, mythic outsider art revenge story, emotional sincerity defeating cynical academic elitism. Highly detailed underground comic aesthetic with cinematic lighting, exaggerated facial expressions, hand-inked textures, surreal emotional atmosphere.
  • Using base image: Yes

THE HOTEL WINDOW AND THE BLACK SEDAN

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Base)

• Size: 1920 X 1920 (3.69 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Keep as is
  • Using base image: Yes

I Tried It

• Model: ChatGPT 2 (Base)

• Size: 2224 X 1680 (3.74 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Dark surrealist artist studio at twilight, illuminated by candles and dusty amber light. A massive easel dominates the room, displaying an intricate painting of three colossal winged angelic beings fused with ruined cathedrals, skeletal anatomy, roots, and bird-of-paradise flowers. The landscape within the painting is post-apocalyptic: cracked earth, dead trees, distant mountains, tiny ritual fires, and abandoned cities fading into haze. The angels appear mournful yet transcendent, blending sacred iconography with decay and alchemical symbolism. The surrounding studio is cluttered with brushes, ink bottles, feathers, botanical sketches, occult diagrams, dried flowers, weathered journals, antique maps, and unfinished drawings pinned to wooden walls. An open blank notebook lies on the table as if waiting for revelation. The atmosphere should feel like an underground visionary artist’s workshop where experimentation matters more than perfection. Mood inspired by the philosophy: there are no failed experiments, only craft and discovery. The room should embody persistence, personal vision, and creative obsession without any written text visible in the image. Style combines illuminated manuscript detail, symbolist painting, vintage collage aesthetics, gothic fantasy, and fine ink illustration. Muted sepia, bronze, ash-rose, faded gold, and smoky charcoal palette. Highly detailed linework, layered textures, aged paper surfaces, cinematic shadows, and dreamlike sacred geometry woven subtly into the composition.
  • Using base image: Yes

THE CLOCK TREES OF THE LAST VALLEY

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1120 X 1688 (1.89 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: THE CLOCK TREES OF THE LAST VALLEY Under the green sky where the clocks leaked gold like wounded fruit, a girl stood beside the lake and heard the ancient machinery of dusk begin to turn. The hills were breathing slowly. The trees held moons in their branches the way old widows hold letters they cannot throw away. Far away, a church tower dissolved into mist. Even the birds had abandoned time. Then came the feeling. Not fear. Not joy. That strange interior wind that moves through the bones before a journey begins. The clocks hanging from the branches began dripping amber light. One by one their hands spun backward. The girl understood. Uh! It is time to go. Not because the world was ending, but because it had already ended many times before without anyone noticing. Inside her room the moon floated outside the window like a pale coin forgotten by God. The walls filled themselves with ticking. Thousands of invisible hours crowded the ceiling like insects. She touched her face and discovered she had already become slightly transparent. Outside, the forests were filling with golden leaves that melted into long streams of honey. Children floated beneath the branches like unfinished thoughts. Every road in the valley had begun quietly pointing elsewhere. So she unlaced the old boots from beneath the bed. The leather remembered rain, railway stations, rivers crossed at midnight, the smell of bread stolen from windowsills, and the sorrow of towns where nobody danced anymore. When she tied the laces the clocks in the trees all struck the same impossible hour. The door opened by itself. Beyond it the night rolled outward in blue rivers and silver dust. She walked. Past trees filled with clock faces, past black roots drinking moonlight, past lakes where drowned stars still trembled beneath the water. The valley became stranger. Golden circles drifted through the air like coins from another civilization. A great tree appeared, its branches twisting into the shape of a human face asleep in eternity. Underneath it two lovers embraced without shadows. She kept walking. The moon followed her from hill to hill like an animal that had chosen her scent. At the center of the world stood the final tree. Half of it belonged to night. Half belonged to morning. Its roots were buried inside abandoned clocks. Its branches reached upward through two enormous moons that were slowly dissolving together. There she understood that time was not a river. Time was a forest. And every choice was another branch growing silently in the dark. At dawn she crossed the black water alone in a small wooden boat. Behind her, the valley faded. Ahead, the earth opened into endless gold. The clocks stopped ticking. The trees stopped weeping. And somewhere beyond the mountains another sky was beginning.
  • Using base image: Yes

THE VALLEY WHERE TIME WAS ABANDONED

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1120 X 1688 (1.89 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: THE CLOCK TREES OF THE LAST VALLEY Under the green sky where the clocks leaked gold like wounded fruit, a girl stood beside the lake and heard the ancient machinery of dusk begin to turn. The hills were breathing slowly. The trees held moons in their branches the way old widows hold letters they cannot throw away. Far away, a church tower dissolved into mist. Even the birds had abandoned time. Then came the feeling. Not fear. Not joy. That strange interior wind that moves through the bones before a journey begins. The clocks hanging from the branches began dripping amber light. One by one their hands spun backward. The girl understood. Uh! It is time to go. Not because the world was ending, but because it had already ended many times before without anyone noticing. Inside her room the moon floated outside the window like a pale coin forgotten by God. The walls filled themselves with ticking. Thousands of invisible hours crowded the ceiling like insects. She touched her face and discovered she had already become slightly transparent. Outside, the forests were filling with golden leaves that melted into long streams of honey. Children floated beneath the branches like unfinished thoughts. Every road in the valley had begun quietly pointing elsewhere. So she unlaced the old boots from beneath the bed. The leather remembered rain, railway stations, rivers crossed at midnight, the smell of bread stolen from windowsills, and the sorrow of towns where nobody danced anymore. When she tied the laces the clocks in the trees all struck the same impossible hour. The door opened by itself. Beyond it the night rolled outward in blue rivers and silver dust. She walked. Past trees filled with clock faces, past black roots drinking moonlight, past lakes where drowned stars still trembled beneath the water. The valley became stranger. Golden circles drifted through the air like coins from another civilization. A great tree appeared, its branches twisting into the shape of a human face asleep in eternity. Underneath it two lovers embraced without shadows. She kept walking. The moon followed her from hill to hill like an animal that had chosen her scent. At the center of the world stood the final tree. Half of it belonged to night. Half belonged to morning. Its roots were buried inside abandoned clocks. Its branches reached upward through two enormous moons that were slowly dissolving together. There she understood that time was not a river. Time was a forest. And every choice was another branch growing silently in the dark. At dawn she crossed the black water alone in a small wooden boat. Behind her, the valley faded. Ahead, the earth opened into endless gold. The clocks stopped ticking. The trees stopped weeping. And somewhere beyond the mountains another sky was beginning.
  • Using base image: Yes

BLUE BUS APOCALYPSE

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1832 X 1032 (1.89 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: BLUE BUS APOCALYPSE The red sun opens like an old wound, and the cities bow their crooked roofs. A man in black walks toward the burning rim, carrying the last shadow in his coat. Above him, planets swarm like fevered bees. Children stare upward, silent as stones, waiting for rain that forgot its name, waiting for mercy from a cracked blue sky. At the edge of town the road begins to hiss. A skull moon hangs over the King’s Highway. The gold mine dreams in purple fumes, and every sign says danger, danger, danger. Then the serpent rises from the ancient lake, green as poison, old as winter, its cold skin sliding through ruined reeds, its eye remembering the first fire. The West burns open like a furnace door. A hawk circles the orange clouds. One stranger stands in the desert as if the whole world has called his number. At midnight the blue bus arrives, headlights glowing like judgment lamps, engine coughing prayers in the graveyard dust. Nobody knows the driver’s face. Down the red hall of portraits, the wanderer passes borrowed faces, old family ghosts, locked doors, and rooms where the past still breathes. Outside, the crowd dances under the vortex. Hands rise, bodies tilt, the sky turns liquid. The bus waits at the edge of the spiral. And then the road falls away— westward, inward, downward— into the bright mouth of the end.
  • Using base image: Yes

ENDING NEGLECT

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1120 X 1688 (1.89 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Keep as is
  • Using base image: Yes

Rollback Aisle of the Crawling Chaos

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1120 X 1688 (1.89 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Rollback Aisle of the Crawling Chaos There are doors in the world that do not open into space, but into arrangement. I found one beneath the flickering red letters of a dying Kmart—its vast parking lot cracked like a desert that had forgotten water. A lone figure stood before the entrance, cast in silhouette by a sun that seemed less like a star and more like an accusation. He turned as I approached, though I had made no sound. “You’ve come to shop,” he said, voice pleasant, thin, and infinitely patient. Inside, the air smelled of plastic and time. Fluorescent lights hummed in an uneasy harmony, illuminating aisles that stretched far longer than the building should allow. The “STORE CLOSING” banner hung like a ritual phrase, repeated at every turn, in every department, above racks of garments that seemed to shift when unobserved. The man—if such a word applies—guided me. “This is where things go when they are no longer believed in,” he said, lifting a box labeled Holiday Lights, Assorted. Inside, the wires pulsed faintly, like veins remembering a heartbeat. “Civilizations shed their skin here. Commerce is merely the visible part.” I asked his name, though I already felt I knew. He smiled—not with lips, but with arrangement. His face flickered, briefly showing another, and another, and another—faces from eras I could not name, some human, others not. All of them watching. “I have been called many things,” he said. “Tonight, I am the Assistant Manager.” We passed an aisle of mirrors. None reflected me. At the end of the store was a clearance section—everything marked down to nothing. There were objects there I could not comprehend: geometries that folded into themselves, books written in languages that rearranged my thoughts, toys that seemed to dream when held. “Take something,” he urged. I reached out and touched a small, ordinary receipt. The moment my fingers brushed it, I understood: every purchase ever made, every exchange, every want—recorded, tallied, and fed into something vast and patient. A ledger not of money, but of attention. Of belief. Of surrender. I dropped it. The lights flickered violently. Somewhere far away, or impossibly near, I heard laughter—layered, echoing, delighted. When I fled back into the parking lot, the building was gone. Only the man remained. He stood beneath the empty sky, his silhouette now stretching impossibly long, touching the horizon. “Closing,” he said softly. “But never closed.” And then he was everywhere at once.
  • Using base image: Yes

Princess Of Chopsticks

• Model: Grok

• Size: 2496 X 3312 (8.27 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Keep as is
  • Using base image: Yes

THE TIDE BENEATH LANGUAGE

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1296 X 1456 (1.89 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Keep as is
  • Using base image: Yes

THE ARCHIVIST OF THE BLIND CONSTELLATION

• Model: Grok

• Size: 2496 X 3312 (8.27 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Keep as is
  • Using base image: Yes