You stand at the beginning of a dusty chalk-white road. A dry gust of breeze throws a delicate, brittle tumbleweed at you. In the distance, a strand of smoke rises to greet the birds of prey flying overhead, singing songs of life.

You are searching for freedom. Your blood pumps darkly with the remembrance of the strain of society. With each step towards the string of smoke, your burden of black falls from you, piece by piece, until you are light as a feather and free as the birds overhead; but you'll never be free from the black. You've lived too hard to escape its scarring. It will always be with you, in you, following you.

You know you'll be liberated when you reach that distant tribe. You can already feel the soft cottons and sumptuous suedes, pressing and caressing your city-soot skin. A strand of hair falls against your face like the gentle beating of a desert bird.

Colors flash. Wild colors. Different colors. A Native-American woman is standing in front of you wearing the most beautiful collection of garments you have ever seen. She hands you new clothes. Everything you have felt, everything you desire, everything you live for is in this piece. Cotton, silk, suede, feathers, bones, and beads in red, ivory, black, brown, and pale gray.