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One hundred seagulls, where will they go? #1
KI-Kunst โOne hundred seagulls, where will they go? #1โ von Jakov auf PixAI. Erstellt mit Tsubaki.3 Flash.
Today the wind blows harder than usual The waves are trying to break free from the sea The sky is gray and you can't change it Look far away, find another place And a hundred seagulls, where will they go? Today you haven't seen anyone to tear down with The walls that rule this city Today you haven't seen anyone to enjoy with Pleasures that only you can imagine And your gaze, where will it go? Today you can drink and lament That their wings will never fly again Today the day is not like the others The rum and beer will make you end up badly Baby, come with me, let yourself go Today I'll show you where the sea ends
Prompts sind auf PixAI standardmรครig รถffentlich, aber Creator kรถnnen sie bei jedem verรถffentlichten Werk verbergen. Der Creator dieses Werks hat sich dafรผr entschieden โ die Wรถrter, mit denen das Bild generiert wurde, bleiben also privat und nur diese Person kann sie sehen. Sonst รคndert sich dadurch nichts: Das Werk bleibt รถffentlich, und du kannst es wie gewohnt liken, kommentieren und teilen.
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1boy, solo, adult male, gaunt, tall thin harrowed figure, hollow cheeks, long matted wind-torn dark hair, weathered skin, tattered dark tartan kilt, frayed hem, heavy black cloak, cloak whipping sideways in the gale, rusted bagpipes, corroded metal ferrules, three drone pipes over the shoulder, blowpipe at his lips, both hands on the chanter and bag, fingers pressed on the chanter holes, standing on the edge of a jagged cliff, windblown, rain, rain whipping around him, violent storm, from below, wide shot, dutch angle, ocean below, crashing waves against rocks, sea spray, ravens, many ravens, flock of birds circling overhead, black and gray sky, churning stormclouds, scotland, highland, mist, bare rock, chiaroscuro, desaturated blacks, cold misty grays, monochrome palette, film grain, hyperdetailed, melancholic, epic tragedy, atmospheric black metal aesthetic
The camera looks up from below the cliff lip at a steep dutch angle, so the crag's black face rises diagonally out of frame and the figure stands on its very edge as a small, gaunt silhouette against a vast churning sky. His thin frame occupies only a fraction of the frame, off-center to the right third, the storm's negative space dominating the left. His feet are planted wide apart, the near heel dug into wet grit at the ledge, toes on the crumbling stone, the kilt's frayed hem snapping violently to one side; one hand grips the bag against his ribs with the chanter fingers pressed flat on the holes, the other hand working the chanter, his chest drawn in with effort, the blowpipe pressed to his lips and the veins visible at his temple as he blows. His head tips slightly down and out toward the ocean, jaw tight, eyes squeezed half-shut against the rain, hollow cheek catching a cold rim of light. Behind his shoulder the three corroded drone pipes point into the wind. The heavy black cloak is torn at the shoulders and bellies out from his back toward the empty sky, its edges lost in the mist. Below the cliff edge the dark ocean heaves; a giant wave breaks on the rocks in the deep background, its crest exploding into spray that hangs in the air as a pale smear. Dozens of ravens wheel in a ragged spiral above him, their wings as black, flat shapes torn across the cloud mass, most of them rendered as silhouettes against the gray, three or four nearer birds catching light along their wing edges. The sky is a deep, churning mass of black and gray, lit from one low break in the distant west; that single cold shaft falls from the upper left, striking the wet crag face, the top of his shoulder, the bagpipe's metal fittings, and the leading edge of the breakers, leaving his underside and the gorge behind him in solid shadow. Rain is visible as thousands of thin white streaks slashing diagonally across the frame, densest in the lit band. Everything is desaturated: black, cold misty gray, a trace of cold blue-green in the spray and a faint, nearly colorless tartan in the soaked kilt, heavily dappled by fine film grain. The fog swallows the far headlands. Dark, monumental, inconsolable.
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