His first thoughts, flickering with the low flash of light behind his eyes, are wry, self-deprecating, something about how the shallowness of his breath must speak to the state of his spirit -- he can't stop the thought from starting, but he does go back to his breath before he finishes it. Think only of each breath. How much is there to think? He tries to focus, but every other thought feels like weeds crowding around the edges of his head, strangling the ground before any new seed takes root. He worries about his health. He worries about time passing. He's worries how boring he must be -- not to Lan Wangji, perhaps, but then he worries about a dozen other people not here and what they've always thought about him.

He breathes out, slow, and tries just to think of the air passing through his lips, his chest falling. He's tilling the earth. He pulls up the weeds, then tries to let them go. There's no use in dwelling, in planting them again.