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Prompt by afdf066233c

spiraling into the void 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
8 320

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

(masterpiece:1.5), (cinematic lighting:1.4), (8k, fine art:1.4), (volumetric light:1.5), (dynamic shadows:1.4), (realistic skin texture:1.5), (ethereal atmosphere:1.5) A witch with jet-black hair stands at the center of a spiraling vortex of unholy fire, its colors glowing in deep purple and electric blue. The flames twist and intertwine like the patterns of a Twister ice cream, encircling her in dense, fiery coils. The unholy flames rise in spirals, forming a dynamic, three-dimensional inferno that dances chaotically yet remains contained within the vortex. She stands in the eye of the storm, untouched by the raging inferno, her bone wand held with an aura of commanding power. The wand glows faintly with otherworldly runes that match the fiery hues. Her eyes are closed, her expression serene and fearless, as though communing with a dark force that fuels the storm. The flames radiate intense light, casting sharp highlights and complex shadows across her pale skin, emphasizing every curve and detail with realistic subsurface scattering. Embers and sparks float in the air around her, creating a chaotic but mesmerizing interplay of motion and light. The background is consumed in darkness, emphasizing the vortex's glowing presence. The storm's flames illuminate the scorched ground beneath her, and the faint volumetric haze enhances the sense of depth and mystique. The vortex spirals upward into the void, its twisting, fiery tendrils suggesting a connection to a higher, malevolent realm. Her robes are tattered and flowing, whipping around her in the intense heat and wind generated by the flames, adding to the dynamic and apocalyptic feel of the scene. Her stance is strong and unyielding, her head slightly tilted upward, embodying both elegance and untouchable power. The unholy flames twist and crackle as they encircle her in dense, spiraling coils, beginning with orange and red fire near the ground and transitioning to deep blue and electric purple as they climb higher, their glow casting flickering shadows across her form. Her expression is serious and strained, her head slightly turned to the side, her furrowed brow and parted lips conveying the immense effort required to channel such destructive power. She wears a sheer black dress with oversized, flowing sleeves that billow dramatically in the vortex’s winds. One side of the dress has slipped down her shoulder in the chaos, accentuating her curves while revealing the curve of her breast and adding a sense of raw energy and intimacy. The dress twists and flutters dynamically, amplifying the scene’s sense of motion. She grips a wand carved from a human femur, the handle adorned with skeleton fingers gripping tightly as though alive with unholy energy. Around her waist, a rope belt adorned with shrunken heads sways lightly in the vortex’s wind, their grotesque, leathery faces twisted in eternal agony. The ground beneath her feet is scorched and cracked, glowing faintly with embers. Scattered withered skulls and incomplete bones lie among the charred earth, blending seamlessly into the apocalyptic scene. In the distance behind her, partially obscured by the flickering flames, hanged bodies dangle upside down from their feet, their silhouettes faint and distorted by the heat of the vortex. The eerie sight adds a macabre depth to the atmosphere, their forms barely visible through the haze and unholy fire. The vortex rises upward, dense and hypnotic, its chaotic motion pulsing with energy, casting volumetric light through the smoky, ash-filled air. The atmosphere is alive with glowing embers, drifting ash, and the faint echoes of crackling flames. The entire scene exudes raw, unrelenting power and destruction, with the witch at its center as the embodiment of chaos and terror.

ElectricL
2 140

7 months ago

A colossal, shadowy figure looms over a surreal, neon-lit underworld, its horns spiraling into infinity like fractal vortexes. Its body is composed of shifting cosmic voids, speckled with burning red stars and glowing sigils of forgotten knowledge. Its eyes are liquid gold, hypnotic and all-consuming, drawing souls into its boundless gaze. Below, two astral-bound figures kneel, shackled by chains of molten silver, yet upon closer inspection, the chains are loose—revealing that their imprisonment is a self-imposed illusion. Their bodies flicker between human and shadow, caught between desire and liberation. The Devil’s outstretched hands weave luminous strings of manipulation, controlling floating tarot cards, shifting golden coins, and burning forbidden books, symbols of temptation and earthly distractions. Around them, melting architectures of hedonistic palaces and warped neon cityscapes twist and collapse, representing the ephemeral nature of false power. Above, a crimson moon drips molten silver, forming a cascading river of lost souls, forgotten dreams, and abandoned ambitions, eternally flowing into the abyss. The air crackles with chaotic, surreal energy, embodying the raw force of passion, obsession, and the choice between enslavement and awakening. Salvador Dalí surrealism, hyper-detailed, haunting yet mesmerizing, celestial and infernal contrast, glowing sigils, cinematic 4K surrealism, fractal horns, neon shadows, liquid reality, ultra-sharp, dreamlike fantasy. --avoid: malformed, extra limbs, distorted anatomy, blurry, low-resolution, pixelated, stretched features, exaggerated distortions, cartoonish, low-poly, noisy, CGI look, unnatural lighting, bad proportions, poorly drawn hands, floating objects, watermark, text artifacts, random artifacts, generic horror elements.

afdf066233c
2 110

4 months ago

In the heart of a cosmic spectacle, Atoma, a powerful and enigmatic heroine, commands attention as she stands resolute within a swirling vortex of atoms. Her presence is both captivating and formidable, embodying the essence of the universe itself. Atoma's striking, long silver hair cascades down her back, shimmering with an otherworldly glow that sets her apart as a beacon of celestial energy. Her hair is not merely a feature but a symbol of her connection to the cosmos, each strand seemingly woven from stardust and possibility. She is adorned in a revealing silver and black bodysuit that accentuates her heroic stature. The bodysuit is intricately designed, with silver patterns that mimic the very atoms swirling around her, creating a harmonious blend between her attire and the environment. The black accents of her outfit provide a stark contrast, enhancing the luminosity of the silver and drawing the eye to her commanding presence. The bodysuit is not just a garment but an extension of her power, reflecting the energy and dynamism of the universe. The background is a breathtaking tapestry of distant galaxies and nebulas, painting a vivid portrait of the infinite cosmos. The galaxies spiral outwards, their luminous arms stretching into the void, while the nebulas add splashes of vibrant color, their gaseous forms creating an ethereal and dreamlike atmosphere. This celestial backdrop not only highlights Atoma's connection to the universe but also underscores her role as a guardian of cosmic balance. The swirling vortex of atoms around her further emphasizes her control and mastery over the fundamental building blocks of existence, making her a truly awe-inspiring figure in this cosmic tableau.

Genie79
1 110

8 months ago

A terrified, slim-faced young man stares downward at a void in the center of her stomach (1.4), his face frozen in an expression of fear and despair (1.2). The void is a swirling black vortex (1.5), its edges distorting the surrounding flesh and fabric of his body, pulling him inward with immense force. His form begins to twist and spiral, his torso stretching unnaturally toward the vortex, his arms, and head subtly warping as though being drawn into an invisible event horizon. His skin and clothes fragment and streak like thin trails of light and shadow, curving around the gravitational pull of the void. The man’s long black hair is swept toward the vortex, strands unraveling and disintegrating as they spiral inward. Around the edges of her body, faint ripples of gravitational distortion warp the air, bending the light and creating ghostly echoes of her disintegrating form. The scene is suffused with a surreal, dreamlike atmosphere—his figure suspended in darkness, illuminated by faint, cold light that accentuates the curvature of his distorted body. His terrified eyes reflect the infinite darkness of the void, his expression both a plea for escape and the inevitability of collapse. The background is abstract and minimal, as though the void has erased all sense of space and time around him. The only remaining focus is the man, his twisting, spiraling body and the endless pull of the vortex consuming his form. The image is haunting, surreal, and emotional, capturing the slow, inevitable collapse of self into nothingness.

janaberserkovic
1 69

8 months ago

A terrified, slim-faced young man stares downward at a void in the center of her stomach (1.4), his face frozen in an expression of fear and despair (1.2). The void is a swirling black vortex (1.5), its edges distorting the surrounding flesh and fabric of his body, pulling him inward with immense force. His form begins to twist and spiral, his torso stretching unnaturally toward the vortex, his arms, and head subtly warping as though being drawn into an invisible event horizon. His skin and clothes fragment and streak like thin trails of light and shadow, curving around the gravitational pull of the void. The man’s long black hair is swept toward the vortex, strands unraveling and disintegrating as they spiral inward. Around the edges of her body, faint ripples of gravitational distortion warp the air, bending the light and creating ghostly echoes of her disintegrating form. The scene is suffused with a surreal, dreamlike atmosphere—his figure suspended in darkness, illuminated by faint, cold light that accentuates the curvature of his distorted body. His terrified eyes reflect the infinite darkness of the void, his expression both a plea for escape and the inevitability of collapse. The background is abstract and minimal, as though the void has erased all sense of space and time around him. The only remaining focus is the man, his twisting, spiraling body and the endless pull of the vortex consuming his form. The image is haunting, surreal, and emotional, capturing the slow, inevitable collapse of self into nothingness.

janaberserkovic
1 48

7 months ago

A colossal crystalline tower, woven from liquid gold and neon threads of fate, fractures into infinite fragments, spiraling through a storm of cosmic fire and celestial lightning. The sky is a swirling chaos of burning stars and silver holographic tears, as reality itself is shattered in an instant of divine destruction. From the ruins, two ethereal figures tumble through the void, their forms flickering between past and future selves, symbolizing the inescapable transformation that follows upheaval. Their expressions are not of fear, but of awakening, as though falling is the first step toward true liberation. Floating above, an all-seeing celestial eye emerges from the rift, its gaze dispassionate and unyielding, watching as the old is destroyed to make way for the new. Around it, cosmic blueprints of fate unravel and rewrite themselves, shaping the next iteration of reality. Below, golden staircases spiral into nothingness, remnants of paths no longer meant to be walked. The very fabric of existence melts and drips like wax, a reminder that structures built on falsehood must eventually collapse. Salvador Dalí surrealism, hyper-detailed, dynamic destruction, cosmic rebirth, neon fire and celestial storms, cinematic 4K transcendence, high-energy lighting, photorealistic apocalyptic vision, surreal architecture collapse. --avoid: blurry, pixelated, distorted proportions, extra limbs, unrealistic physics, oversaturated, stretched features, random artifacts, cartoonish, low-poly, poor lighting, generic fantasy elements, missing details, poor perspective, disconnected objects, floating elements without structure.

afdf066233c
1 79

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