Prompt: Gardenias, tulips, petunias, babies breath, forget me nots, Marigold, Heather, peonies, sage, lavender, Gladioli, Fern.
Lilies daisies, sweet peas, violets, roses, thistles,, Mercury Glass patina, Art Brut, moody, fine, romantic desaturated colors, in the style of Paul Klee, Arthur Rackham (Prompt by Kevin Webb)
Prompt: portrait in peach and blue, garden, Mercury Glass patina, Art Brut, moody, fine, romantic desaturated colors, in the style of Paul Klee, Arthur Rackham (Prompt by Kevin Webb)
Prompt: (((King and queen laughing in an elaborate throne room, in the style of John William Waterhouse, John Singer Sargent, Josephine Wall, Eduard Manet, Catrin Welz Stein, William-Adolphe Bougueraeu, Arthur Rackham, Gustav Klimt,
Catherine Abel)))
The king threw his head back and laughed. He enjoyed a good laugh, and so did his wife, the queen. When she saw the king laughing she let out a big laugh too. In fact, she laughed so hard she broke her throne. This made them both laugh harder. Then they got serious when they remembered they had the plague. "The plague," said the king, but the way he said it made them both burst out laughing again.
Prompt: I miss him, I hate him. I don’t remember when one day
became three but I remember
week three, the pain the reality of us as told to others, heard and seen
by others
before I did, that’s the true
betrayal having my story hijacked and redesigned by invisible hands
now tearing
at my very real heart.
I’m loyal
to the number seven. It amused him I think
I count steps of staircases, breaths
in the sun, I know the beats
of movements that I minimize walking,
miniature ballet. One two three
repeat, dance. Do not dare watch
me as though I’m an abstraction. I live
I count I mourn. Eat my pain
if you don’t believe in it. If it’s too
far away for you
to feel the throb of objectification
in your second-hand retelling
of my first-person tale of hope,
grit and love.
Prompt: Black woman and asian man meet in the georgian streets of Bath, England. Eight years after Anne Elliot was persuaded not to marry a dashing man of humble origins, they meet again. Will she seize her second chance at true love
Prompt: Black women. Eight years after Anne Elliot was persuaded not to marry a dashing man of humble origins, they meet again. Will she seize her second chance at true love. In style of movie
Prompt: Beautiful women playing mahjong. Beautiful fair skin tone Manchurian girl, silky black hair, large beautiful large eyes with double eye lids and long eye-lashes, sharp nose and high nose ridge, small cherry red lips, beautiful anatomically correct hands and fingers
Prompt: Two women in their late 40s forties. Women in their prime. . Romantic and dramatic. Brontë. Jane austen movie poster regency regencycore dresses curly hair small pink flowers and silver hearts cascading like rainbow rain. Bubbles and tinsel n sparkles.
Prompt: Queens. Regal. Wrinkled. 50’s. Pensioners. OLD WOMEN. Older mixed-race women.Intricately detailed white 3D paper patchwork of a fantasy, style by. Tudor dynasty. Lace colours like Elizabethan fashion. White feathers. Pearl jewelry. White dresses with gold embellishments
Prompt: Chubby curvy Woman in her 40s. I miss him, I hate him. I don’t remember when one day became three but I remember week three, the pain the reality of us as told to others, heard and seen by others before I did, that’s the true betrayal having my story hijacked and redesigned by invisible hands now tearing at my very real heart. I’m loyal to the number seven. It amused him I think. I count steps of staircases, breaths in the sun, I know the beats of movements that I minimize walking, miniature ballet. One two three repeat, dance. Do not dare watch me as though I’m an abstraction. I live I count I mourn. Eat my pain if you don’t believe in it. If it’s too far away for you to feel the throb of objectification in your second-hand retelling of my first-person tale of hope, grit and love.
Prompt: I miss him, I hate him. I don’t remember when one day became three but I remember week three, the pain the reality of us as told to others, heard and seen by others before I did, that’s the true betrayal having my story hijacked and redesigned by invisible hands now tearing at my very real heart. I’m loyal to the number seven. It amused him I think. I count steps of staircases, breaths in the sun, I know the beats of movements that I minimize walking, miniature ballet. One two three repeat, dance. Do not dare watch me as though I’m an abstraction. I live I count I mourn. Eat my pain if you don’t believe in it. If it’s too far away for you to feel the throb of objectification in your second-hand retelling of my first-person tale of hope, grit and love.
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.