Prompt: I hear your weak voice from afar, Martian lady, give it to me, maybe we’ll sing on the air, at least on a short wave of bells, ringing without sad ones. Let it ring between you and me, like hundreds of wedding rings that have become the strings of one harp, how natural you are, how wonderfully you don’t want to understand that I’m alone everywhere I constantly catch your silence everywhere, Style By Kate Baylay, Mark Hearld, Sam Toft, Javier Mariscal, Helen Dardik, Monica Blatton, impasto brushstrokes texture, Mixed media image.
High fantasy art, romantic, inspired by the works of Alan Lee and Arthur Rackham.
Prompt: Mid 20 century style, a woman in a vintage striped beautiful dress sits on a sofa, drawing flowers on her lap with a felt-tip pen, Layered Artwork, in the style of Robert Rauschenberg, by William Kentridge
I love you without the hairstyle,
Without blush - before the end of the night,
In the black shine of your hard hair,
With a pale and stern face.
But, having removed my hands and lips,
You're leaving, you're always on the go,
But the heart cannot subside,
Like a midnight meeting, go.
Will again I see how good you are?
From what darkness will you, in despair,
Will you smile, almost without breathing?
In the bustle and harshness of the day,
In the midst of fateful news
I'm not complaining, I'm not jealous,—
You are my bread in this famine of passion.
Prompt: Mail, mail, damn it's your fault...
Mail, mail, damn it's to blame.
You write to me, I know
you write to me every night.
You glue airline stamps,
you run to the corner,
I don't know,
why this mail
for two years he doesn’t want to help!..
I'll come back -
eight days on the courier itself,
is it fast?
I'll take a break for at least an hour,
forever,
to find our door,
and bang your fists
and wait, frozen,
like a shot
click of the lock.
I will come,
I'll die, but I'll come
Now.
And I swear
if you have become even more beautiful in two years,
if I don't find out
your trembling speech...
God take care of you
in this moment I will believe in God,
God take care of you
if I failed to save.
Prompt: Mid 20 century style, a woman in a vintage striped beautiful dress sits on a sofa, drawing flowers on her lap with a felt-tip pen, Layered Artwork, in the style of Robert Rauschenberg, by William Kentridge
I love you without the hairstyle,
Without blush - before the end of the night,
In the black shine of your hard hair,
With a pale and stern face.
But, having removed my hands and lips,
You're leaving, you're always on the go,
But the heart cannot subside,
Like a midnight meeting, go.
Prompt: Mid 20 century style, a woman in a vintage striped beautiful dress sits on a sofa, drawing flowers on her lap with a felt-tip pen, Layered Artwork, in the style of Robert Rauschenberg, by William Kentridge
I love you without the hairstyle,
Without blush - before the end of the night,
In the black shine of your hard hair,
With a pale and stern face.
Prompt: Mid 20 century style, a woman in a vintage striped beautiful dress sits on a sofa, drawing flowers on her lap with a felt-tip pen, Layered Artwork, in the style of Robert Rauschenberg, by William Kentridge
Prompt: CHILDHOOD, GARDENS, HEAT...
Yes, I was maybe eight years old.
Childhood, summer, distant rear.
The house, the rumble and creaking of steam-window carts,
Heat, gardens covered in dust.
And a cheerful woman in our yard,
Prompt: CHILDHOOD, GARDENS, HEAT...
Yes, I was probably eight years old.
Childhood, summer, distant rear.
The house, the rumble and creaking of steam-window carts,
The heat, the gardens immersed in dust.
And a cheerful woman in our yard,
Boarder,
that's what her grandfather called her,
My cheeks started to burn in the morning,
No, I was only eight years old.
I laughed when she smiled
I chatted: there were no words yet,
And when she washed herself by the stream,
I chased the boys out of the bushes.
It's all a long time ago
but now I remember -
Night, adobe, without shutters, house.
I stood leaning against the rough wall,
Under her cheerful window.
He returned from the war -
I understood that
but she hugged him.
He, damn it, lifted her in his arms,
and she kissed him.
I didn't know why my hands were shaking.
It's quiet outside, it's dark.
sob and whisper,
Eh, how can I restrain myself here!
I hit the window with a stone.
Someone ran out:
- You?
I looked into her eyes.
as if in a dream I wanted to scream.
and then, as a disabled neighbor, I said:
- Well, fuck off...
And she pushed him away: - Go away.
This is Grandfather Nazar's grandson...
and pressed it to the open soft chest:
- Oh, my little, stupid friend...
I rushed
Climbed onto the roof and lay down
On my grandfather's threadbare carpet,
How can I grow overnight!..
Become strong!.. I could
repay her shame.
...Childhood, no, is not forgotten.
let time fly.
but it’s hard for me to be with you,
when the boy is next door
will look at us
with unforgiving childish melancholy.
He stands leaning against the whitewashed wall,
Black-eyed, gloomy, angry.
He will give his first jealousy to you,
Your childhood
gardens,
heat...
Prompt: CHILDHOOD, GARDENS, HEAT...
Yes, I was probably eight years old.
Childhood, summer, distant rear.
The house, the rumble and creaking of steam-window carts,
The heat, the gardens immersed in dust.
And a cheerful woman in our yard,
Boarder,
that's what her grandfather called her,
My cheeks started to burn in the morning,
No, I was only eight years old.
I laughed when she smiled
I chatted: there were no words yet,
And when she washed herself by the stream,
I chased the boys out of the bushes.
It's all a long time ago
but now I remember -
Night, adobe, without shutters, house.
I stood leaning against the rough wall,
Under her cheerful window.
He returned from the war -
I understood that
but she hugged him.
He, damn it, lifted her in his arms,
and she kissed him.
I didn't know why my hands were shaking.
It's quiet outside, it's dark.
sob and whisper,
Eh, how can I restrain myself here!
I hit the window with a stone.
Someone ran out:
- You?
I looked into her eyes.
as if in a dream I wanted to scream.
and then, as a disabled neighbor, I said:
- Well, fuck off...
And she pushed him away: - Go away.
This is Grandfather Nazar's grandson...
and pressed it to the open soft chest:
- Oh, my little, stupid friend...
I rushed
Climbed onto the roof and lay down
On my grandfather's threadbare carpet,
How can I grow overnight!..
Become strong!.. I could
repay her shame.
...Childhood, no, is not forgotten.
let time fly.
but it’s hard for me to be with you,
when the boy is next door
will look at us
with unforgiving childish melancholy.
He stands leaning against the whitewashed wall,
Black-eyed, gloomy, angry.
He will give his first jealousy to you,
Your childhood
gardens,
heat...
Prompt: CHILDHOOD, GARDENS, HEAT...
Yes, I was probably eight years old.
Childhood, summer, distant rear.
The house, the rumble and creaking of steam-window carts,
The heat, the gardens immersed in dust.
And a cheerful woman in our yard,
Boarder,
that's what her grandfather called her,
My cheeks started to burn in the morning,
No, I was only eight years old.
I laughed when she smiled
I chatted: there were no words yet,
And when she washed herself by the stream,
I chased the boys out of the bushes.
It's all a long time ago
but now I remember -
Night, adobe, without shutters, house.
I stood leaning against the rough wall,
Under her cheerful window.
He returned from the war -
I understood that
but she hugged him.
He, damn it, lifted her in his arms,
and she kissed him.
I didn't know why my hands were shaking.
It's quiet outside, it's dark.
sob and whisper,
Eh, how can I restrain myself here!
I hit the window with a stone.
Someone ran out:
- You?
I looked into her eyes.
as if in a dream I wanted to scream.
and then, as a disabled neighbor, I said:
- Well, fuck off...
And she pushed him away: - Go away.
This is Grandfather Nazar's grandson...
and pressed it to the open soft chest:
- Oh, my little, stupid friend...
I rushed
Climbed onto the roof and lay down
On my grandfather's threadbare carpet,
How can I grow overnight!..
Become strong!.. I could
repay her shame.
...Childhood, no, is not forgotten.
let time fly.
but it’s hard for me to be with you,
when the boy is next door
will look at us
with unforgiving childish melancholy.
He stands leaning against the whitewashed wall,
Black-eyed, gloomy, angry.
He will give his first jealousy to you,
Your childhood
gardens,
heat...
Prompt: CHILDHOOD, GARDENS, HEAT...
Yes, I was probably eight years old.
Childhood, summer, distant rear.
The house, the rumble and creaking of steam-window carts,
The heat, the gardens immersed in dust.
And a cheerful woman in our yard,
Boarder,
that's what her grandfather called her,
My cheeks started to burn in the morning,
No, I was only eight years old.
I laughed when she smiled
I chatted: there were no words yet,
And when she washed herself by the stream,
I chased the boys out of the bushes.
It's all a long time ago
but now I remember -
Night, adobe, without shutters, house.
I stood leaning against the rough wall,
Under her cheerful window.
He returned from the war -
I understood that
but she hugged him.
He, damn it, lifted her in his arms,
and she kissed him.
I didn't know why my hands were shaking.
It's quiet outside, it's dark.
sob and whisper,
Eh, how can I restrain myself here!
I hit the window with a stone.
Someone ran out:
- You?
I looked into her eyes.
as if in a dream I wanted to scream.
and then, as a disabled neighbor, I said:
- Well, fuck off...
And she pushed him away: - Go away.
This is Grandfather Nazar's grandson...
and pressed it to the open soft chest:
- Oh, my little, stupid friend...
I rushed
Climbed onto the roof and lay down
On my grandfather's threadbare carpet,
How can I grow overnight!..
Become strong!.. I could
repay her shame.
...Childhood, no, is not forgotten.
let time fly.
but it’s hard for me to be with you,
when the boy is next door
will look at us
with unforgiving childish melancholy.
He stands leaning against the whitewashed wall,
Black-eyed, gloomy, angry.
He will give his first jealousy to you,
Your childhood
gardens,
heat...
Prompt: CHILDHOOD, GARDENS, HEAT...
Yes, I was probably eight years old.
Childhood, summer, distant rear.
The house, the rumble and creaking of steam-window carts,
The heat, the gardens immersed in dust.
And a cheerful woman in our yard,
Boarder,
that's what her grandfather called her,
My cheeks started to burn in the morning,
No, I was only eight years old.
I laughed when she smiled
I chatted: there were no words yet,
And when she washed herself by the stream,
I chased the boys out of the bushes.
It's all a long time ago
but now I remember -
Night, adobe, without shutters, house.
I stood leaning against the rough wall,
Under her cheerful window.
He returned from the war -
I understood that
but she hugged him.
He, damn it, lifted her in his arms,
and she kissed him.
I didn't know why my hands were shaking.
It's quiet outside, it's dark.
sob and whisper,
Eh, how can I restrain myself here!
I hit the window with a stone.
Someone ran out:
- You?
I looked into her eyes.
as if in a dream I wanted to scream.
and then, as a disabled neighbor, I said:
- Well, fuck off...
And she pushed him away: - Go away.
This is Grandfather Nazar's grandson...
and pressed it to the open soft chest:
- Oh, my little, stupid friend...
I rushed
Climbed onto the roof and lay down
On my grandfather's threadbare carpet,
How can I grow overnight!..
Become strong!.. I could
repay her shame.
...Childhood, no, is not forgotten.
let time fly.
but it’s hard for me to be with you,
when the boy is next door
will look at us
with unforgiving childish melancholy.
He stands leaning against the whitewashed wall,
Black-eyed, gloomy, angry.
He will give his first jealousy to you,
Your childhood
gardens,
heat...
Prompt: No tears, no words, no melody
I won't be able to revive my heart,
There is no such remedy, even in theory,
To resurrect me to life.
From now on my stay is only a memory
Have the most wonderful days
Love killed by accident
Among the Kazakh steppes.
My personal <girlish> logic is gone,
The foundation has disappeared somewhere...
I shouldn't say goodbye to you,
But I won't say, "Wait!"
Some phantasmagoria, some complete nonsense.
Where is the wisdom of the entire universe,
How long does grief give rise to sadness?
And where does our happiness hide?
We'll never find
If, being terribly confused, you don’t accidentally come across...
Prompt: No tears, no words, no melody
I won't be able to revive my heart,
There is no such remedy, even in theory,
To resurrect me to life.
From now on my stay is only a memory
Have the most wonderful days
Love killed by accident
Among the Kazakh steppes.
My personal <girlish> logic is gone,
The foundation has disappeared somewhere...
I shouldn't say goodbye to you,
But I won't say, "Wait!"
Some phantasmagoria, some complete nonsense.
Where is the wisdom of the entire universe,
How long does grief give rise to sadness?
And where does our happiness hide?
We'll never find
If, being terribly confused, you don’t accidentally come across...
Prompt: No tears, no words, no melody
I won't be able to revive my heart,
There is no such remedy, even in theory,
To resurrect me to life.
From now on my stay is only a memory
Have the most wonderful days
Love killed by accident
Among the Kazakh steppes.
My personal <girlish> logic is gone,
The foundation has disappeared somewhere...
I shouldn't say goodbye to you,
But I won't say, "Wait!"
Some phantasmagoria, some complete nonsense.
Where is the wisdom of the entire universe,
How long does grief give rise to sadness?
And where does our happiness hide?
We'll never find
If, being terribly confused, you don’t accidentally come across...
Prompt: ***
No tears, no words, no melody
I won't be able to revive my heart,
There is no such remedy, even in theory,
To resurrect me to life.
From now on my stay is only a memory
Have the most wonderful days
Love killed by accident
Among the Kazakh steppes.
My personal <girlish> logic is gone,
The foundation has disappeared somewhere...
I shouldn't say goodbye to you,
But I won't say, "Wait!"
Some phantasmagoria, some complete nonsense.
Where is the wisdom of the entire universe,
How long does grief give rise to sadness?
And where does our happiness hide?
We'll never find
If, being terribly confused, you don’t accidentally come across...
Prompt: Belarusian folk fairy tale
First, you need to thresh the sheaves, pour the grain into bags, take the bags to the mill and grind the flour...
- No, not all. You need to knead the flour in a bowl and wait for the dough to rise. Then put it into a hot oven.
Prompt: Belarusian folk fairy tale
First, you need to thresh the sheaves, pour the grain into bags, take the bags to the mill and grind the flour...
- No, not all. You need to knead the flour in a bowl and wait for the dough to rise. Then put it into a hot oven.
Prompt: First, you need to thresh the sheaves, pour the grain into bags, take the bags to the mill and grind the flour...
- No, not all. You need to knead the flour in a bowl and wait for the dough to rise. Then put it into a hot oven.
Prompt: Belarus fairy folk tale. Wolf and mower's dialogue.
First, you need to thresh the sheaves, pour the grain into bags, take the bags to the mill and grind the flour...
You need to knead the flour in a bowl and wait for the dough to rise. Then put it into a hot oven.
Prompt: Wolf ran to the river. He sees geese grazing on the shore. “Shouldn't I eat them?” -thinks. Then says:
- Geese, geese! I'll eat you.
Magic surrealism, deep colours, magical, dreamy.
Easy bread Belarusian folk fairy tale Illustration
Model:
AIVision
Size:
1024 X 1024
(1.05 MP)
Used settings:
Prompt: Belarusian folk fairy tale
The wolf came to the pasture. He saw a horse.
- Horse, horse! I'll eat you.
Magic surrealism, deep colours, magical, dreamy.
Prompt: Belarusian folk fairy tale
A mower man was mowing the meadow. He got tired and sat down under a bush to rest. He took out the bag, untied it and started chewing the bread.
Magic surrealism, deep colours, magical, dreamy.
Prompt: Postcard for LinkedIn.
celebrating the first anniversary of the Europe and Central Asia Transport and Trade Association (ECATA)!
Successful launch and establishment of ECATA as a pivotal player in the transport and trade industry.
Forming strategic partnerships with key stakeholders and industry leaders.
Prompt: stylish, modern
Implementing initiatives that have enhanced connectivity and facilitated smoother trade across borders.
Prompt: Traditional Belarusian folk costume
thresh the sheaves, pour the grain into bags, take the bags to the mill and grind the flour...
by Anna Dittmann, by James Tissot
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.
