text: Dylan was a starving artist, often making more money raking yards than selling his photos. Even though he vows to quit his passion, he always makes his way to the State Capitol to catch candid images of people around the statues and lawn. As another rather uninspiring day draws down to its end with no pictures worth taking, Dylan begins to pack his equipment and head for his small apartment. He's grown too used to this feeling. Suddenly, ten young women in canary yellow dresses walk onto the lawn and form a circle, barefoot in the neatly cut grass. While people start to crowd around what must be the beginnings of some sort of performance, Dylan struggles to ready his camera and get in front of the onlookers. The women fall to the ground in unison as he lifts the camera up to his eye; Dylan snaps several quick pictures as the crowd grows silent. The ten bodies lie there for about two minutes before people grow concerned. "Somebody dial 911!" came the scream that broke the silence. The woman kneels there with her hand on the pulse--or lack thereof--of the redhead of the group. After the hysteria died down, the police marked the scene, and the media has asked their questions, a journalist rolls through Dylan's rolls photos of what's being called a mass suicide. The fourth one on the roll was an almost surreal capture; yellow dresses appear to float in the air as they fall and the faces look dead before they hit the ground, like the souls can be seen leaving the body. The journalist looks into Dylan's eyes, "I don't know what your portfolio looks like, but it seems as if you finally have your million-dollar photo.