Image: Midjourney, Adobe Firefly – Text: ChatGPT – Master of Prompts: Me

Hi. I’m Circle 7. Not to brag, but I’m the prettiest loop in this whole cosmic diagram. Perfect curvature, golden outline, slightly off-center in that “mysterious genius” kind of way.

I live up there, floating over a field of flowers—mainly red poppies. They stare at me all day like I’m some celestial influencer. Honestly, it’s exhausting.

Every night, stars sparkle behind me while I hang on this chalkboard sky with my circle siblings. Some of them think they’re part of a big scientific equation. Circle 3 says we form a map to the meaning of life. Circle 12 thinks we’re an ancient alien message. Me? I think we’re just doodles left by a bored universe.

Bild: Midjourney, Text: ChatGPT, Master of Prompts: Me

Niemand wusste, wie sie hieß. Sie war einfach da – schwebend zwischen den zerbröckelnden Säulen des alten Schlosses, wie ein Traum aus Zucker und Salz. Eine Eisqualle in zartem Himbeer-Violett, mit einem Blick, der selbst aus Wackelpudding-Materie Sehnsucht zu formen schien.

Lukas, Restaurator und bekennender Einzelgänger, sah sie zum ersten Mal, als er die zerbröselte Stuckdecke inspizierte. Er war ein Mann der Statik, des Maßbands, des Kamillentees. Und doch hielt er inne, als die Qualle ihn ansah. Oder anschwebte. Oder einfach in seiner Nähe zitterte – das reichte.

Er kam jeden Tag. Sprach mit ihr. Erzählte ihr von Schimmelpilzen im Mauerwerk, von seiner Kindheit im Baumarkt. Sie hörte zu, wie nur ein Wesen zuhören kann, das keine Ohren, aber dafür leuchtende Tentakeln hat.

Video: Midjourney image, animated in Runway, Text: ChatGPT, Master of Prompts & Ideas: ME

It didn’t crash-land, it strolled in.

One morning, in the middle of an abandoned museum lobby, there it stood: a giant, bizarre flower with a neck like a confused giraffe and petals that looked like they were sketched by an art student after three espressos and a philosophical crisis.

No one saw it arrive. No spaceship. No grand entrance. Just… boom. There.

The locals assumed it was an art piece—some avant-garde protest about climate change or gluten. Tourists posed with it. One kid licked it. He now dreams in binary.

Pictures: gaumbART-style, fine-tuned AI image generation model, Text: ChatGPT, Master of prompts & ideas: Me

It all started on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday. The sun rose, the sea shimmered, and Gerald the Coconut Palm decided he had had enough.

For years, Gerald and his leafy friends watched as tourists sprayed sunscreen like air freshener, left plastic bottles in the sand, and treated the ocean like a giant toilet. “We photosynthesize, not ‘plastosynthesize’,” grumbled Gerald to his buddy Fernanda the Beach Fern.

Then came the final straw: someone lit a bonfire made of broken flip-flops and soggy fast-food wrappers. The smoke rolled in like doom wearing sunglasses. Gerald coughed. Fernanda wilted. Barry the Seaweed fainted.