Imagine for a moment a photo of Marilyn Monroe. One a bit less typical; one where she's wearing a genuine, happy, friendly smile. I have this very photo framed in my bathroom. It was in my bedroom in a previous apartment. And in my closet, in a box, in an even older place. Before these moves of course, and before the photo was mass produced, she was Norma Jean, alive and free, and my existence wasn't guaranteed, and many people I'll never know had concerns long since forgotten.