A sample prompt of what you can find in this page
Prompt by Nednut4362

loss prompts

very few results

7 months ago

Abstract Full-Body Portrait of a Prostitute – Salvador Dalí (Late-Life Style, Singular Focus & Pure Surrealism) (Surrealism:1.7, Salvador Dalí late-life style:2.0, Dreamlike distortion:1.6, Hyperreal textures:1.5, Chiaroscuro contrast:1.4, Oil-painting brushstrokes:1.5, Organic fluidity:1.6, Metaphysical realism:1.4) A full-body surrealist portrait of a prostitute, painted in the unmistakable late-life style of Salvador Dalí, where dream logic dictates form and reality bends into its own subconscious reflection. She stands alone in the void, a lone figure frozen in motion yet melting into time itself. Her body is elongated but coherent, her limbs refined into one singular, fluid, organic motion, as if she is a sculpture made of half-formed candle wax, melting at the edges but never fully dissolving. Her face remains untouched by distortion, hyperreal and melancholic, eyes darkened with kohl, staring directly outward, unblinking, as if confronting time, fate, and the fabric of reality itself. A single strand of jet-black hair escapes from her carefully pinned curls, swaying in an invisible breeze. Her lips—painted a deep, blood-red—drip slightly at the edges, as if smeared by unseen hands, caught between seduction and sorrow. Her dress, a relic of the past, is a contradiction of luxury and decay, the hem transforming into thin wisps of smoke, curling and dispersing into the canvas. The fabric is stretched unnaturally, its folds elongating like the melted forms of Dalí’s classic clocks, one shoulder slipping in an eternal descent, never quite falling. The setting is an infinite, surreal landscape—a lonely street with no visible end, where shadows stretch longer than their owners, and the cobblestones appear to melt into liquid mercury. In the background, a large, antique pocket watch, twisted and partially submerged in the air, hangs frozen at an uncertain hour, its hands warped into elongated spirals. A single red rose, impossibly large and impossibly alive, hovers just behind her, its petals peeling away like fragments of forgotten love letters. The air feels thick, painted with visible brushstrokes, where light and shadow do not obey the laws of physics—instead, they bleed into one another, wrapping around her body in soft, liquid chiaroscuro, mimicking the curvature of a dream. She is not merely a woman but a symbol—of desire, of loss, of something slipping through time like sand through Dalí’s own fingers.

ElectricL
8 310

8 months ago

A massive, living eye, hundreds of meters across (1.5), floats in the restless sky, its organic surface shimmering with iridescent hues of gold, blue, and violet. The sclera is smooth yet faintly veined, and the iris is an intricate, mesmerizing pattern of deep amber and emerald tones, glowing faintly with otherworldly light. The pupil is vast and dark, radiating an intense sense of sorrow and purpose. From the lower curve of the pupil, an endless cascade of ethereal souls flows outward, pouring gracefully to the earth below like a stream of translucent, glowing mist (1.3). The souls are fluid and spectral, their forms shifting between delicate, humanoid silhouettes and flowing tendrils of light. They move in a seamless, unbroken stream, their pale luminescence blending shades of white, silver, and faint blue. The cascade ripples and flows like liquid energy, softly illuminating the air around it. As the souls descend, they disperse gently into the paradise below, merging with the landscape in a quiet, harmonious embrace. The earth beneath is a vision of divine perfection: an endless expanse of lush, vibrant paradise. Golden-leafed trees rise tall and proud, their branches glowing softly in the ethereal light of the souls. Crystal-clear rivers weave through fields of radiant flowers, and soft mist clings to the ground, reflecting the glow of the cascade. The souls touch the earth gently, creating ripples of light that pulse outward, infusing the land with surreal energy. Above, the sky is alive with motion—dense, swirling clouds in shades of violet, gold, and crimson churn restlessly, illuminated by fleeting beams of sunlight that break through in radiant shafts. The colossal eye hovers at the center of this chaos, beautiful yet profoundly sorrowful. Its edges glisten with tears, shimmering like liquid diamonds, as if mourning the souls it releases. The entire scene is filled with a sense of cosmic beauty and sadness, blending the serene and the surreal into a harmonious vision of creation and loss.

ElectricL
7 200

8 months ago

A massive, living eye, hundreds of meters across (1.5), floats in the restless sky, its organic surface shimmering with iridescent hues of gold, blue, and violet. The sclera is smooth yet faintly veined, and the iris is an intricate, mesmerizing pattern of deep amber and emerald tones, glowing faintly with otherworldly light. The pupil is vast and dark, radiating an intense sense of sorrow and purpose. From the lower curve of the pupil, an endless cascade of ethereal souls flows outward, pouring gracefully to the earth below like a stream of translucent, glowing mist (1.3). The souls are fluid and spectral, their forms shifting between delicate, humanoid silhouettes and flowing tendrils of light. They move in a seamless, unbroken stream, their pale luminescence blending shades of white, silver, and faint blue. The cascade ripples and flows like liquid energy, softly illuminating the air around it. As the souls descend, they disperse gently into the paradise below, merging with the landscape in a quiet, harmonious embrace. The earth beneath is a vision of divine perfection: an endless expanse of lush, vibrant paradise. Golden-leafed trees rise tall and proud, their branches glowing softly in the ethereal light of the souls. Crystal-clear rivers weave through fields of radiant flowers, and soft mist clings to the ground, reflecting the glow of the cascade. The souls touch the earth gently, creating ripples of light that pulse outward, infusing the land with surreal energy. Above, the sky is alive with motion—dense, swirling clouds in shades of violet, gold, and crimson churn restlessly, illuminated by fleeting beams of sunlight that break through in radiant shafts. The colossal eye hovers at the center of this chaos, beautiful yet profoundly sorrowful. Its edges glisten with tears, shimmering like liquid diamonds, as if mourning the souls it releases. The entire scene is filled with a sense of cosmic beauty and sadness, blending the serene and the surreal into a harmonious vision of creation and loss.

ElectricL
7 200

7 months ago

(Surrealism:1.7, Salvador Dalí late-life style:2.0, Dreamlike distortion:1.6, Hyperreal textures:1.5, Chiaroscuro contrast:1.4, Oil-painting brushstrokes:1.5, Organic fluidity:1.6, Metaphysical realism:1.4) A full-body surrealist portrait of a prostitute, painted in the unmistakable late-life style of Salvador Dalí, where dream logic dictates form and reality bends into its own subconscious reflection. She stands alone in the void, a lone figure frozen in motion yet melting into time itself. Her body is elongated but coherent, her limbs refined into one singular, fluid, organic motion, as if she is a sculpture made of half-formed candle wax, melting at the edges but never fully dissolving. Her face remains untouched by distortion, hyperreal and melancholic, eyes darkened with kohl, staring directly outward, unblinking, as if confronting time, fate, and the fabric of reality itself. A single strand of jet-black hair escapes from her carefully pinned curls, swaying in an invisible breeze. Her lips—painted a deep, blood-red—drip slightly at the edges, as if smeared by unseen hands, caught between seduction and sorrow. Her dress, a relic of the past, is a contradiction of luxury and decay, the hem transforming into thin wisps of smoke, curling and dispersing into the canvas. The fabric is stretched unnaturally, its folds elongating like the melted forms of Dalí’s classic clocks, one shoulder slipping in an eternal descent, never quite falling. The setting is an infinite, surreal landscape—a lonely street with no visible end, where shadows stretch longer than their owners, and the cobblestones appear to melt into liquid mercury. In the background, a large, antique pocket watch, twisted and partially submerged in the air, hangs frozen at an uncertain hour, its hands warped into elongated spirals. A single red rose, impossibly large and impossibly alive, hovers just behind her, its petals peeling away like fragments of forgotten love letters. The air feels thick, painted with visible brushstrokes, where light and shadow do not obey the laws of physics—instead, they bleed into one another, wrapping around her body in soft, liquid chiaroscuro, mimicking the curvature of a dream. She is not merely a woman but a symbol—of desire, of loss, of something slipping through time like sand through Dalí’s own fingers.

ElectricL
4 140

9 months ago

a melancholic and surreal scene of a heartbroken figure sitting alone on an antique clock face, suspended amidst a vast, star-filled void. The clock's ornate design features intricate engravings and tarnished gold accents, its hands cracked and frozen in place, symbolizing the futility of time in healing deep emotional wounds. The figure sits in a hunched, contemplative pose, radiating sadness and introspection, their silhouette softly illuminated by the surrounding glow of the stars. Floating around the figure are fragments of glowing, shattered hearts, their light dimming as they drift further into the endless void. Each fragment flickers faintly, leaving behind faint trails of golden light that contrast beautifully with the deep blues and purples of the celestial backdrop. The broken hearts emphasize the lingering pain of loss and the quiet beauty in sorrow. The surrounding stars shimmer gently, casting faint reflections on the clock’s surface. Nebula-like swirls of deep blue and violet create a dreamy, ethereal environment, while subtle glimmers of golden light offer a fragile hope amidst the sadness. The overall color palette evokes a mix of melancholy and awe, blending the depth of pain with the beauty of the cosmos. Rendered with hyper-realistic detail, the intricate textures of the antique clock, the luminous glow of the shattered heart fragments, and the soft highlights on the figure’s form are meticulously crafted. The composition captures the haunting beauty of the moment, symbolizing the fragility of time, love, and emotional healing in a visually and emotionally resonant masterpiece.

Pulsar212121
1 81

7 months ago

(Surrealism:1.7, Salvador Dalí late-life style:2.0, Dreamlike distortion:1.6, Hyperreal textures:1.5, Chiaroscuro contrast:1.4, Oil-painting brushstrokes:1.5, Organic fluidity:1.6, Metaphysical realism:1.4) A full-body surrealist portrait of a prostitute, painted in the unmistakable late-life style of Salvador Dalí, where dream logic dictates form and reality bends into its own subconscious reflection. She stands alone in the void, a lone figure frozen in motion yet melting into time itself. Her body is elongated but coherent, her limbs refined into one singular, fluid, organic motion, as if she is a sculpture made of half-formed candle wax, melting at the edges but never fully dissolving. Her face remains untouched by distortion, hyperreal and melancholic, eyes darkened with kohl, staring directly outward, unblinking, as if confronting time, fate, and the fabric of reality itself. A single strand of jet-black hair escapes from her carefully pinned curls, swaying in an invisible breeze. Her lips—painted a deep, blood-red—drip slightly at the edges, as if smeared by unseen hands, caught between seduction and sorrow. Her dress, a relic of the past, is a contradiction of luxury and decay, the hem transforming into thin wisps of smoke, curling and dispersing into the canvas. The fabric is stretched unnaturally, its folds elongating like the melted forms of Dalí’s classic clocks, one shoulder slipping in an eternal descent, never quite falling. The setting is an infinite, surreal landscape—a lonely street with no visible end, where shadows stretch longer than their owners, and the cobblestones appear to melt into liquid mercury. In the background, a large, antique pocket watch, twisted and partially submerged in the air, hangs frozen at an uncertain hour, its hands warped into elongated spirals. A single red rose, impossibly large and impossibly alive, hovers just behind her, its petals peeling away like fragments of forgotten love letters. The air feels thick, painted with visible brushstrokes, where light and shadow do not obey the laws of physics—instead, they bleed into one another, wrapping around her body in soft, liquid chiaroscuro, mimicking the curvature of a dream. She is not merely a woman but a symbol—of desire, of loss, of something slipping through time like sand through Dalí’s own fingers.

ElectricL
1 93