The Purple Patch - Missouri Valley College

above. Minutes later I discovered the bird standing unperturbed,
voraciously pecking at dead flesh.
Behind the bird was an old, faded olive building
that drew little attention. The bird didn’t matter anymore.
What could I have done anyway? I hurried in because a
door was open. A desk was to my immediate right upon
entering, but no courteous fellow to greet my arrival.
Looking closer, a squat, middle-aged man with chalky hair
sat at a computer below the counter, walled in by books.
He didn’t seem to notice me, so I walked on.
Heavy, moldy molecules were diffused throughout.
I was soon rendered speechless by the massive shelves
cluttered with innumerable books. I was sure the store was
breaking some fire code, for abundant stacks were everywhere.
Books that had been abandoned. Books that had
been forgotten. It was fertile with everlasting ideas. I took
my time perusing the shelves, looking for nothing in particular.
Whether it was just for shelter or some unknown
intangible attraction, I lingered. Outside, the rain was not
departing, retaining me within the learned refuge. I pulled
one of the dusty volumes down and began to read.
That the was beginning of a pure, unquenchable
desire to know. Over time, I consistently visited the place,
gaining pleasure by just browsing. The books emitted a
musty perfume that cast me into a trance: time was relative
to me no longer, only the words. Fortunately, the store
wasn’t very conspicuous. Visitors rarely came, as if the
public regarded it as antediluvian—possessing ideas with
no modern application. I was a submarine surveying its
oceanic depths, discovering literary wealth the further I
sank. To not read now would be to deprive myself of cognitive
nourishment. You are what you read, so be sure to
chew carefully.
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