It was something the Sandhill Crane said. At a great harvest party, his silver fringed feathers shining in the firelight. We were all gathered round, munching on the last rinds of zucchini and acorn squash; the Leopard Tortoise, the Bay Cat, the Java Sparrow, even the Groundhog was invited that day. Their faces showed no signs of disturbance in the honeyed, flickering glow, but I have been unable to shake his words since they left that sharp golden beak of his the very evening. 
He was commenting on one of Mrs. Sparrow's messy homemade scarves. She was rather beside herself this time, for it had come out poorly once again with a great big bite taken out of the silken blue thread. But the Crane, in attempts to console her, said: "Everything happens for a reason Mrs. Sparrow; everything happens for a reason."
I shuddered at the sound of those words. The sound of ignorance and impudence. How could he, not know the truth? My stomach felt sick all of a sudden, and I left the party. For then I knew that the folks there were all searching for lies, patterns, spirals to crawl down and hide in; to deceive and entertain themselves. Because a day of hard work in the hot sun is not enough to do so. They thumb their noses at Truth, and leave him blank, blind, and begging. 
In the end, I know who's behind every adventure and misadventure, every smile, and every frown. I know it is all the doing of Chaos. Chaos who's arms span the length of the universe, and far beyond. He's the darkness; he's the light. I know he is. People enter and leave this world at Chaos' sporadic, untamed bidding. And how do I know this you ask? Because I met him on a summer day in late August, when the trees were painted like fireworks; and the sky a crimson sliver held up by the clumsy and jagged horizon. I'll never repeat what he said to me that day; we've agreed: it's confidential. 
But when he slumped off down the hill. His hands in his pockets like a sulking child. This dark shadow that was cut out of the red sky, blurry in patches and sharp in others; I was left with a brand new world to consider. To think of the raw and exposed randomness of it all. The very randomness that inspires the greatest fears within the mortal hearts of my brothers and sisters. Why? Ask yourself. For I'll never know. But when Chaos comes knocking on my door, I'll be sure to set the kettle on, and invite him in. Knowing that my death will be just as trivial as my birth, and all of the time that has passed in between. 
Does the lack of meaning scare you? The endless void of the vague, the screaming of the indecipherable, and all along the inconsistent clawing of obscurity at your door; trying, trying to get in. Let that fear wash over you, let it wrap you in its faint and fuzzy arms, sing you to sleep with a sweet lullaby: "Nothing matters in the end; nothing matters, nothing..."

And that was how the Unicorn died. Sitting in his old oak rocking chair, his great big head bent, drooling on the book in his lap. A book turned to its final page, that said only: "A life without meaning is not a life at all." The Unicorn had the faintest of smiles sleeping on his face, as Chaos stepped out of his freshly wallpapered living room and out into the street below. His eyes cold for he knew, that the Unicorn, in all his devotion to philosophy and the search for the forever escaping truth, had never the chance to read the last line.