When I was younger, boys my age would have their adventures outdoors - but for me, I traveled and experienced more through the vessel of a good book.

That adventure still stays with me, no more so than a trip to a second-hand bookshop. It's always a treasure hunt of what I will find among the hidden stacks and leaning towers of stacked tomes threatening to collapse if I attempt to pick a book from its base.

Typically, my eyes scan shelf after shelf. The books seemingly plead to be read, often showing off their wrinkled spines or their faded covers for sympathy from the potential reader.

Occasionally, my hand would dart to grab a book, as though it would be spirited away the moment I saw it. I would thumb through the yellowing pages reading not only the author's words, but the faded notes of its previous owners. Often those words can be as telling as the black print.

Sometimes I would leave the shop with a bag full of new friends; other times I would leave without a friend to accompany me home - but the adventure remains the same.