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Prompt by 98e72bcf80e

dusk sky prompts

hundreds of results

7 months ago

n a crumbling sanctuary built at the end of time, open to the sky and flooded with wild overgrowth, a solitary figure stands on a plinth of fractured obsidian—a synthetic angel, both artifact and oracle, mid-transmission. Her body is constructed from a dual-layered material: an outer shell of liquid mirror-glass, always in motion, bending light in surreal ripples—beneath it, a lattice of golden memory circuits, softly pulsing, like script woven from heat and purpose. She is not human. She is not machine. She is the last interface between meaning and forgetting. Her posture is both exalted and worn. One hand raised in silent benediction, the other buried in the tangle of flowering vines wrapping around her legs—life clinging to light, as though nature itself refuses to let go of what she remembers. Etched across her glass-like surface are thin veins of glowing amber: pathways of forgotten prayers, tracing up her legs, over her spine, across her collarbones like fading constellations. Her face is concealed behind a split golden visor, semi-open like the petals of a mechanical flower—revealing only light. From her back, two vast wings made of layered crystalline blades curve upward like collapsed architecture—part cathedral, part ruin. They shimmer not with fire, but with reflected memory, like a sky that forgot how to storm. Around her, broken statuary and shattered machines lie half-swallowed by roots and blossoms. In the distance, a forest made of circuitry burns without smoke—slowly, beautifully. Above, stars pulse in unnatural constellations, forming sigils from before language. Hovering just above her head spins a halo unlike any known form—a fractured ring of refracted glass, filled with flowing text that no longer aligns with any living tongue. It does not glow—it remembers. Rendered in the style of an impressionist-Renaissance hybrid painting, layered with visible brush textures, fog-softened edges, and gold-split chiaroscuro. Warm dusk tones dominate the palette: blood-orange, dusk-lavender, rusted copper, soft pollen white. She is the Benediction Engine—not worshipped, not feared, not obeyed. She simply remains, bearing witness to everything we were, and everything we failed to become.

8 months ago

POV first-person,i am standing by the window, smoking a cigarette, captured from a first-person perspective. only my hand is visible in the frame. i hold the cigarette between my index and middle fingers with a relaxed grip, the lit end glowing faintly in the dim evening light. the cigarette is a standard white filter cigarette, with a thin brown band near the tip. ash has started to form at the end, slightly uneven, with a soft orange ember glowing as i take a slow drag. faint wisps of smoke rise, curling gently into the air before disappearing. my thumb rests near the filter, occasionally flicking the ash away. the view outside the window shows tehran at dusk, with the city lights flickering against the cool evening sky. in the distance, the milad tower stands tall, its distinctive tapered cylindrical body narrowing toward the top before expanding into its iconic multi-tiered head, which houses an observation deck and a glowing ring of lights. the tower's sleek, modern design contrasts with the mix of high-rise buildings and older, traditional structures surrounding it. the city’s streets below are lined with cars, their headlights forming thin, glowing streaks as they navigate through the urban landscape. inside, the atmosphere is moody and contemplative, with the faint glow of streetlights and the subtle reflection of city lights on the window glass. the warm ember of my cigarette pulses slightly as i inhale, adding to the quiet solitude of the moment.