Every camera his grandparents ever owned was eventually retired into a big box of toys in the corner of the living room. With each visit to their house, there would always be a head first rummage through the dolls, bits of hotwheels track, and the occasional shoe to find what could only be described as inoperable junk. An old black kodak, its matte black finish marred with glossy imprints of the many fingers that had grasped it. It was an old 35 mm point and shoot, one that was hard to find film for, and even harder to find a battery. Whether he knew it or not, that busted old camera was no more useful than a paper weight. Nevertheless, he carried it all around the house, practicing holding it up to his eye, lining the shot up in the scratched viewfinder, and pushed the shutter button to the unceremonious silence of a dead camera. He would never see the results of his carefully composed masterpieces, but it didn’t matter, he loved every minute of it.