[One of seven in B&W] It is night inside my Minolta, permanent as a shutter shut. Zoom is doomed, settings sunk. Precision parts, designed to blind with light, are blinded. The room is black. Purchased one white summer at Auckland Airport, Minolta was a way to captivate Samoa, bougainvillea cascading through the aperture like distant galaxies. Or Italy as the Soviet fell, piazzas flowering white at its window. Now Minolta’s retired to a December ledge. It rests in its blue leather case, louche sightseer who’s seen better days. Batteries are tired, its timer’s got entropy. All it knows is midnight.