Placeholder: No clouds in my stones Let it rain, I hydroplane in the bank Comin' down like Dow Jones When the clouds come, we gone We Roc-A-Fella We fly higher than weather No clouds in my stones Let it rain, I hydroplane in the bank Comin' down like Dow Jones When the clouds come, we gone We Roc-A-Fella We fly higher than weather

@generalpha

Prompt

No clouds in my stones Let it rain, I hydroplane in the bank Comin' down like Dow Jones When the clouds come, we gone We Roc-A-Fella We fly higher than weather

statue, doubles, twins, entangled fingers, Worst Quality, ugly, ugly face, watermarks, undetailed, unrealistic, double limbs, worst hands, worst body, Disfigured, double, twin, dialog, book, multiple fingers, deformed, deformity, ugliness, poorly drawn face, extra_limb, extra limbs, bad hands, wrong hands, poorly drawn hands, messy drawing, cropped head, bad anatomy, lowres, extra digit, fewer digit, worst quality, low quality, jpeg artifacts, watermark, missing fingers, cropped, poorly drawn

2 months ago

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Model

SSD-1B

Guidance Scale

7

Dimensions

1248 × 832

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My quickened sense can only plod. Imagination waves its rod, My spirit burns with lightning splendor, Emotive faith tastes the bread of God. As moves the wind on sightless wings, Nor shadow o'er the landscape flings, While seas to chafe of foam are beaten, And plectrum sweeps all the forest strings; So through the world doth Spirit move, And presence by His working prove,— A mystery of might and music, A lonelihood of eternal love.
My quickened sense can only plod. Imagination waves its rod, My spirit burns with lightning splendor, Emotive faith tastes the bread of God. As moves the wind on sightless wings, Nor shadow o'er the landscape flings, While seas to chafe of foam are beaten, And plectrum sweeps all the forest strings; So through the world doth Spirit move, And presence by His working prove,— A mystery of might and music, A lonelihood of eternal love.
In the background, we shall paint a swirling sea of forgotten photographs, lost in the vast expanse of time. These images, once cherished and significant, now find themselves adrift, waiting to be rediscovered. They represent the vast well of historical knowledge that feeds into the formation of collective memory, their faded colors and aged textures hinting at the passage of time.And finally, to capture the essence of this paradox, let us add a figure, a silhouette of a person with outstretched
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My quickened sense can only plod. Imagination waves its rod, My spirit burns with lightning splendor, Emotive faith tastes the bread of God. As moves the wind on sightless wings, Nor shadow o'er the landscape flings, While seas to chafe of foam are beaten, And plectrum sweeps all the forest strings; So through the world doth Spirit move, And presence by His working prove,— A mystery of might and music, A lonelihood of eternal love.
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My quickened sense can only plod. Imagination waves its rod, My spirit burns with lightning splendor, Emotive faith tastes the bread of God. As moves the wind on sightless wings, Nor shadow o'er the landscape flings, While seas to chafe of foam are beaten, And plectrum sweeps all the forest strings; So through the world doth Spirit move, And presence by His working prove,— A mystery of might and music, A lonelihood of eternal love.
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