I bought this camera from a box of things no one wanted to label. Its shutter sticks when the air is cold. The little door over the battery compartment won't close unless I hold it with my thumb. It has never once made my life easier.
Next to it is a ticket I didn't use. I kept that too. The sensible part of me insists that both objects are clutter; the other part remembers exactly which night I put them on this table.
I like the delay of film. I like not knowing immediately if a photograph exists. Sometimes I forget what's on the roll, and when I finally see it, the moment arrives a second time with different edges.
An object can be a place you return to.
The camera might stop working next week. I'll probably keep it then, too.