He hesitates, turning around in the field. He picked the wrong thing to imagine, he thinks -- he shouldn't have gone somewhere by himself. He should have chosen something that could be interconnected with other things. How can he reflect balance in this place?

He considers changing everything and starting over; he could imagine something different inside of himself, something better suited to the task Lan Wangji has given him.

Then he thinks, verily, verily, I say unto you, Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit. The one produces the two. The three produces the ten thousand. His field is fine.

He sits down among the stalks of wheat, heavy with grains, shifting gently in the breeze that blows over the field. The fish dart across the surface of the massed heads, rippling them. Galahad breaks head from one of the stalks and separates each of the grains, holding them in his hand. Things grow, and when they grow they multiply. The stalks must wither and lose their grains, and the grains must die and crack open to let the life inside them out (a bur is only a coat to protect something precious: the seed of life enclosed inside it. It searches for the ground its seed can grow in).