“Why is a raven like a writing desk? I’ve asked myself this question since I knew what a question was to ask. Possibly since before that, since one needn’t know what a question is in order to ask. Quite the opposite. But I’m getting ahead of myself, or behind myself. Both of which I prefer to being beside myself. Beside is so… nonprogressive.”

The Hatter paused; the scarf around his eyes twitched. If his eyebrows were visible, Alice thought, they would be high on the forehead beneath his hat.

“Is nonprogressive even a word?” she asked. The jumble of letters told her tongue ‘no’, but she asked all the same.

“Of course it’s a word,” said the Hatter. “I’ve uttered it, you’ve heard it… AND you’ve repeated it back to me. What is a word, if not that?”

“What is a word?” asked Alice, searching her own mind for the answer.

“That’s what I asked!” said the Hatter. “Isn’t that what I asked?” He turned to the Hare, who nodded and drooled.

“So,” asked Alice, “What is a word?”

The Hatter smiled – he seemed all teeth and hat. “What… is… a… word.” He said. The smile grew, impossibly, yet possibly; it happened as she watched. What was a word indeed, she thought.

“Well,” she began, “A word is a… sound, for something. But… more than that, it’s a sound that paints a picture.”

The Hatter smiled. “Where,” he asked,“Is this picture painted, and who,” his smile grew, “Chooses the palette? Is this a finger-painting? I know a bird that makes a sound from.. well, from somewhere… and I can tell you firsthand that you don’t want to see what that sound can paint. In fact, I wouldn’t want to see secondhand, or thirdhand, if I had one… or three… and the sound? Not what you or I should want to hear.”

Alice felt red rise in her cheeks. She fought it down with stubborn white. Pink cheeked and tight-lipped, she said “I do not care about your foul mouthed bird.”

“The mouth is just fine,” said the Hatter, his smile grew, impossibly… again.

“I do not care about your bird!” shouted Alice. The pink fled her cheeks and the Hatter saw the Queen of Hearts flare.

“You have no idea,” she shouted. Her voice cracked and dropped. The Hatter’s eyebrows followed suit.

“Alice?” he asked, his voice like a leaf on a pond.

“What?” she asked, freezing, but not shattering the question.

“Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

Alice looked where the Hatter’s eyes should be, and found knitted wool and the Ace of spades. It’s more than I’ve found in the sane, she thought.

“A raven is like a writing desk,” she said, “because both can carry your soul to places your fingers cannot reach.”

The Hatter’s smile faltered. The March Hare grunted.

“All this time,” said the Hatter,“And not a hand to show for it.”