This is still my stuff.

What happens to seagull reasons if a man carrying a rope ladder walks calmly and purposefully into the depths of an ancient forest, far from any borders, in the heart of an old, landlocked country, and stumbles across a deep, dry well? What happens to seagull reasons if he secures the ladder to the rusted but thick and still firm iron fittings on the side of the well and, confident that though the iron bears the marks of centuries of neglect, reflecting the despondent, isolated gloom of the clearing in which the well makes its home, it will stand proud, strong, unflinching against the fleeting, transient, meaningless force of his tiny weight, climbs down into the darkness, turning his attention from the dank dampness around and inward toward his self, making his ‘I’ its own focus? What happens to seagull reasons if, by the time his foot brushes gently on the soft, mulchy mud of the bottom of the well, his conscious mind is so abstracted from his surroundings, so absorbed in self-contemplation that his body functions merely mechanically, allowing his manifestation in the by now illusory physical plane to fold itself, to scrunch up its stretch into compact, encapsulated compression so that those surroundings absorb him, and his presence becomes one with the universe, his being disappears, his ‘him’ transforms into ‘all’?

Nothing! Ha.