Why is a raven like a writing desk?

That is the question that had been plaguing his mad mind for years on end. He had long forgot when it first weaved its way into his troubled mind, but had never forgotten the riddle itself- the riddle that played over and over in his thoughts in regular intervals. Never knowing the answer, he'd place it again to the back of his mind, chastising it for coming to the surface, the naughty thing.

Today, however, when it surfaced, he caressed it in his mind, petting it, trying to coax the answer out of it with promises of cake and tea, if it would pretty please tell him the answer? Nothing was heard from the riddle though, and he gave up on getting anything out of it, letting the thing run around his mind, causing chaos with the Words that roamed, sometimes peacefully, sometimes malignantly, inside of his head. Images of taking the teapot and pouring scalding tea inside his ear so maybe his brain would melt and maybe the melted brain would slosh out of his head and onto the table and he would fall fall fall fall away from the tea party and just maybe Death would be a kind chap and let him go but what about Alice he has to wait for Alice. Alice. Her name stilled the madness inside his head, to which neither Mallymkun and Thackery were privvy to at the moment, seeing as how they were too busy throwing butter-knives at Chessur.

Alice.

He held that name in his head, the way he had held the riddle- Why is a raven like a writing desk? I don't know, I don't know, go away, go away! The name brought her to his mind's eye, all of her beauty and all of her muchness. Since she went back to the Aboveland, part of what was left of his muchness went away with her, and it was all he could do to not give in completely to the innocent madness that came with his trade.

He would try to be patient and wait for her return. She would come back, she said it was so. She'd be back. Wouldn't she?