After some further speculation:

A decision, mainly.
The balance which is too delicate even to speak of, has been thrown. Throated.
In any case, what is left beside the expanse of breath, the hole. It is the same space between lips, where He lays whispering to the soil. He is spraying seed into the throat of delicacy, spilling beauty and filling our stomachs with it. The mind screams, piercing graves of the angels, raising them. The sound of a scalpel splitting a hair. The angels move across a field, stooped over. Old. Their white hair dragging the soil, entangling Truth with it. A second movment brings the rain, and sorrow is blown out over the water. Not to dissipate, merely regroup. The command, dilute. What else may melt away the gloss. Truth, Beauty, all things...

Two things on my mind...the power of words, my confrontation with a tree.

Words are power...no matter what people do to them, how they are arranged, they will inevitably produce power. Such is the idea that must feed my fingertips. I am cowardly. I waste my words or hide them lazily in my mind, refusing to birth them. Which leads me to my next thought...where is my tree? Will it not grow in the wild of my mind? Must it be tended to, toiled over? Fantasy tells me that my tree will come naturally, effortlessly into existence, after all, am I not made of soil? Is not soil the womb of thought? Trees, or at least, MY tree cannot be kept by fantasy. I am here, outside of that place, and I trace it only in my slumber. My tree must have been cut down for the wood long ago. Now I am lost. I gave my tree away, it is finished. But I know...and that is all that matters. I must chase away the fantasy and bend to the ground, using my very blood to water this place. Then I will have what I seek.