Flux AI Web is a cutting-edge AI image generator that supports a wide range of styles. It uses an advanced transformer-based pipeline model to achieve high-quality, precise output. It has a user-friendly interface that serves both professionals and amateurs. Flux AI can quickly convert text cues into precise images, increasing your creative efficiency.
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Flux AI Web
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PixelProphet
- Posts: 15
- Joined: Sun May 05, 2024 1:29 pm
Re: Flux AI Web
The City of Scaffolds (Flux.1 dev + Gemini Pro)
The air hangs thick, a broth of stone dust and forgotten whispers. Above, the sky is not sky but a bruised eyelid, veined with storm, barely letting through a glint of phantom moonlight. Below, a chasm yawns, its teeth jagged and cold, swallowing the last echoes of the sun.
And there, suspended between the teeth of the abyss, the City of Scaffolds.
It’s not built, not in the way of human hands and measured stone. It’s grown, like a fungus of iron and despair, from the very marrow of the earth. Towers pierce the gloom, their spires sharp enough to prick the nonexistent stars. They are not graceful, these towers. They are frantic, reaching, as if clawing their way out of some primordial mud. Each level is a tangle of rusted girders and skeletal arches, interconnected by chains that groan with the weight of centuries, or perhaps the weight of unsaid prayers.
Tiny lights, like embers in a dead fire, flicker within the city's skeletal frame. Not joyous lights, but desperate sparks clinging to the void. They are the eyes of the city, watching, waiting. For what? Perhaps for the abyss to finally blink and consume them all.
Below, at the chasm’s bottom, a river whispers. Not water, not truly. It’s the sigh of the earth’s deep lungs, liquid regret solidified into a sluggish, phosphorescent stream. It reflects the city in broken shards of light, doubling the sense of fractured reality, as if the world itself is tearing at the seams.
Chains, oh, the chains. They drape like mournful jewelry, connecting the city to the cliff faces like leashes tethering a nightmare. They are the city’s veins, its arteries of rust and shadow. They hum with a low, metallic dirge, a song of gravity and entropy, a lullaby for the dying world.
Sometimes, on the non-wind, a sound drifts up from the city. Not music, not speech. More like the clatter of bones, the grind of gears that haven’t turned in eons, the soft weeping of stone. It’s the sound of a dream decaying, a memory crumbling into dust.
You stand at the edge, drawn by this impossible vision, this architecture of sorrow. You feel a pull, not physical, but a whisper in your soul, urging you down into the chasm, towards the City of Scaffolds. It promises nothing but the cold embrace of eternity, the solace of oblivion. But in its desolate beauty, in its terrifying grandeur, there is a strange kind of truth. A truth about endings, about the slow, inevitable unraveling of all things, rendered in stone and shadow, chains and dying light. And in that truth, a strange, unsettling poetry blooms.
If interested you can try Flux.1 dev for free at Tensor.art
The air hangs thick, a broth of stone dust and forgotten whispers. Above, the sky is not sky but a bruised eyelid, veined with storm, barely letting through a glint of phantom moonlight. Below, a chasm yawns, its teeth jagged and cold, swallowing the last echoes of the sun.
And there, suspended between the teeth of the abyss, the City of Scaffolds.
It’s not built, not in the way of human hands and measured stone. It’s grown, like a fungus of iron and despair, from the very marrow of the earth. Towers pierce the gloom, their spires sharp enough to prick the nonexistent stars. They are not graceful, these towers. They are frantic, reaching, as if clawing their way out of some primordial mud. Each level is a tangle of rusted girders and skeletal arches, interconnected by chains that groan with the weight of centuries, or perhaps the weight of unsaid prayers.
Tiny lights, like embers in a dead fire, flicker within the city's skeletal frame. Not joyous lights, but desperate sparks clinging to the void. They are the eyes of the city, watching, waiting. For what? Perhaps for the abyss to finally blink and consume them all.
Below, at the chasm’s bottom, a river whispers. Not water, not truly. It’s the sigh of the earth’s deep lungs, liquid regret solidified into a sluggish, phosphorescent stream. It reflects the city in broken shards of light, doubling the sense of fractured reality, as if the world itself is tearing at the seams.
Chains, oh, the chains. They drape like mournful jewelry, connecting the city to the cliff faces like leashes tethering a nightmare. They are the city’s veins, its arteries of rust and shadow. They hum with a low, metallic dirge, a song of gravity and entropy, a lullaby for the dying world.
Sometimes, on the non-wind, a sound drifts up from the city. Not music, not speech. More like the clatter of bones, the grind of gears that haven’t turned in eons, the soft weeping of stone. It’s the sound of a dream decaying, a memory crumbling into dust.
You stand at the edge, drawn by this impossible vision, this architecture of sorrow. You feel a pull, not physical, but a whisper in your soul, urging you down into the chasm, towards the City of Scaffolds. It promises nothing but the cold embrace of eternity, the solace of oblivion. But in its desolate beauty, in its terrifying grandeur, there is a strange kind of truth. A truth about endings, about the slow, inevitable unraveling of all things, rendered in stone and shadow, chains and dying light. And in that truth, a strange, unsettling poetry blooms.
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