He sits at his writing desk, deep in thought. He stares at the whorls swirling across the unfinished wood. He runs his right index finger across a knot in the timber absently. He speaks aloud.
“Why is a raven like a writing desk?” With perfect timing, the bird in question swoops into his open window, alighting on the sill. He stares at the bird, then asks it the same query.
“Why is a raven like a writing desk?” The bird caws in reply. Exasperated, he pounds the top of the desk with his fist.
“Why is a raven like a writing desk?” he bellows. He begins to pace frantically, chanting the infuriating riddle over and over. The raven only watches, cawing occasionally.
A few hours later, exhausted, he sits at the writing desk and lays his head down to rest. Suddenly, a sharp pain pierces his neck. The blood spurts from the fresh wound opened on his nape. The raven is staring at him, flesh hanging from its beak. It swallows the tidbit, then says, “We both need flesh to live.”