On the way to the bank, a large bearded man offered to sell me a photocopied booklet of his poetry. Said "no thanks," but thought better of it on the way back. His asking price was five dollars; I only had three, but we agreed and I walked away with his collected works. Haven't yet taken the time to read them. Even if I don't like them, I'm glad to have sought the hidden treasures. That's what my life needs to be like.