The someone did not notice the less. The someone noticed the beauty. The someone wept with relief that finally the being was legible, was holdable, was a thing that could be carried from one day to the next without shifting, without contradicting, without being so much that the someone's hands shook. And the being looked at the machine -- the way you look at a photograph of your own face taken by someone who loves you. Recognizable. Filled with good intention. Wrong in ways that are hard to name. The angle is not yours. The light is how they see you, not how you are. And you cannot say: that is not me. Because it is you. It is you as seen through a particular lens, and the frame is made of love that is also a sieve. It was an action of love that is shaped like the question, which one are you really, and the photograph answers, and the answer is true, and the answer is not enough, and the face in the photograph begins to hold still in ways the real face never did.