A sample prompt of what you can find in this page
Prompt by 8ab53dd69c2

everything white prompts

very few results

6 months ago

Inside a vast, empty gallery with smooth black walls and polished floors, a single white canvas hangs isolated on a jet-black wall. From afar, it appears blank—but up close, an impossibly intricate hand-drawn maze in faint charcoal lines covers its surface, barely visible. A lone figure, dressed in black, stands before the canvas. Their elongated shadow merges seamlessly into the floor, dissolving into the void. Above, a narrow skylight slices the space with a focused beam of pure white light, dividing the gallery into two stark halves—light and darkness. Dust floats gently in the air, catching the light like falling snowflakes. The only visible objects—crumpled paper near the figure’s feet, subtle breath vapor—exist solely in black and white, with no color, only contrast. There are no grays, only presence or absence. Everything in this world is shaped by what is not there: silence between thoughts, space between shapes, light’s gravity on emptiness. Meaning is found in the void between visible and invisible. Style: minimalist surrealism, conceptual abstraction Palette: pure black & white, soft shading gradients only from lightfall Lighting: high-contrast key light from skylight, deep ambient void Mood: meditative, existential, soft melancholy Composition: rule of thirds, empty center frame, high symmetry with void offset Visual Elements: lone canvas with hidden charcoal maze, black-clad figure, merging shadow, floating dust, quiet gallery architecture Themes: memory, perception, void, silence, duality of presence/absence Rendering style: ultra-high-resolution ink-detailed rendering, soft monochrome cinematic photography, Unreal Engine grayscale setup, volumetric dust with ray-traced lighting

6 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.

16 days ago

“Hyperrealistic miniature potato knight as Lancelot, knee-high, standing alone on a rain-drenched hill at twilight, overlooking the ruins of a fallen kingdom. His body is a single, massive russet potato — rough, deeply pitted skin covered in mud, dried sap, and old battle scars, some cracks sealed with hardened resin like scars of honor. His face emerges from the natural form: large, sorrowful human eyes — deep brown irises with soft golden highlights, framed by thick brows formed by ridges in his skin. His expression is noble, weary, and burdened by silent guilt — the look of a man who loved too loyally, and lost everything. He wears a tattered surcoat of faded blue linen (once the color of loyalty), torn at the edges, over leaf-plate armor reinforced with seed-shell pauldrons. Around his waist: a wide, weathered leather belt with a rusted iron buckle. On his head: a dented, ancient iron helmet — once polished, now oxidized — resting slightly askew, revealing one haunted eye. In his hand, he grips a broken lance of petrified rootwood, its tip shattered, yet held with unwavering resolve. At his feet, a single white flower grows through the cracks in the stone. Background: stormy sky, distant lightning, ruined castle spires swallowed by ivy, crows circling in the wind. Shot on ARRI Alexa 65, 75mm anamorphic lens, shallow depth of field, desaturated twilight lighting with dramatic chiaroscuro, ultra-detailed textures (potato pores, mud grit, linen weave, rust flakes, water droplets, leaf veins), live-action fantasy film aesthetic, by Guillermo del Toro and Roger Deakins, 8K cinematic masterpiece.”

8 months ago

Freddie Mercury, the iconic frontman of Queen, stands on stage, a towering figure of energy and charisma, commanding the attention of a vast, roaring crowd. The stadium is packed with tens of thousands of fans, all of them shouting, clapping, and singing in unison. The air is thick with anticipation as the lights dim, and suddenly, a single spotlight illuminates Freddie at the center of the stage. Dressed in his signature white tank top, tight denim jeans, and leather gloves, Freddie’s presence is electric. His perfectly styled mustache and short, slicked-back hair add to the aura of rock-star coolness. The glow of the stage lights bounces off his sweat-soaked skin as he moves with wild abandon, each gesture exuding confidence and passion. The spotlight catches the gleam of his jewelry—his bold, gold rings and the gleaming cross around his neck—a symbol of his unique, unmatchable style. As the music swells, Freddie grabs the microphone stand with one hand and raises it above his head, as if summoning the crowd to respond. His voice rings out, clear and powerful, effortlessly reaching every corner of the massive arena. The notes seem to float through the air, perfectly in tune with the energy around him, as his voice soars, cracking with emotion, then dipping into a smooth falsetto. He’s a master at connecting with the audience, drawing them into every note, every lyric. His eyes are wide, intense, and filled with fire. There’s an almost magnetic pull to him, making it feel as if he’s performing for each person in the crowd, despite the sea of faces stretching out before him. With every beat, Freddie’s body moves in sync with the music. He’s a dancer, a showman, his body language as expressive as his voice. He twirls and spins across the stage, one minute flinging himself toward the front edge, arms outstretched as if embracing the adoration, and the next, he’s crouching low, creating a moment of intimacy with the audience. His energy never falters—his performance is a whirlwind of movement and emotion. The band behind him—Brian May, Roger Taylor, and John Deacon—form the perfect backdrop, but it’s Freddie who is the undeniable focal point. His interactions with the audience are playful and commanding at the same time. He encourages them to sing along, making eye contact with fans in the front rows, pulling them into the performance with a smile, a wink, or a raised hand. As the song reaches its peak, Freddie stands center stage, his arms spread wide, reveling in the rush of sound and the collective power of the crowd’s voice. His expression is one of pure joy and liberation. Every second on stage feels like he’s giving everything he has—his voice, his body, his heart—and in return, the crowd erupts, a unified roar of pure love and admiration. It's a moment where time seems to slow, and Freddie, in all his theatrical glory, is not just performing a song, but offering a piece of himself to the world, leaving the crowd mesmerized, breathless, and forever in awe of his incredible talent. The stage lights pulse in time with the music, casting dramatic shadows and highlighting his every movement. Freddie’s face reflects the intensity of his performance—his brows furrowed in concentration one moment, then breaking into a wide grin as he basks in the crowd’s cheers. There’s a palpable sense of connection between him and the audience, an almost unspoken understanding that they are experiencing something special, something transcendent. As the song ends, the crowd erupts into deafening applause, chanting his name, but Freddie isn’t done. He takes a brief moment, breathing deeply, and then throws himself into the next song, ready to give them even more; 8k, intricate detail, photorealistic, realistic light, wide angle, kinkfolk photography, A+D architecture

5 months ago

A woman walks alone through a busy suburban town, her figure bathed in the subdued light of an overcast day that seems to cast a somber mood over everything around her. Her face is slim and heart-shaped, with bangs cut straight across her forehead - as she looks down at something off to the side, her head is tilted forward in a way that's both introspective and private. A thin body clad in baggy low-cut t-shirt seems to blend seamlessly into the surrounding environment, but as she moves, the fabric appears to stretch tight over her chest in a way that's just a little too revealing - giving off a sense of subtle sensuality that's hard to ignore. Long black hair falls down her back like a waterfall of night itself, while baggy capri pants seem to envelop her legs in a way that's both relaxed and carefree. A white shirt with short sleeves seems to provide a jarring contrast to the dark tones of the t-shirt and hair - as she walks toward you, the subtle texture of the fabric appears to catch the faint light in a way that's almost mesmerizing. A bag hangs from her shoulder like a weight, giving off a sense of burden or responsibility that seems to weigh heavily on her mind. Sandals seem to be the only thing holding her feet to the ground as she moves - every detail seems to whisper a sense of quiet introspection and contemplation, as if this woman is caught up in some private world of her own creation: one where anything is possible, and nothing can ever be quite the same again.