Hanging by a single thread of a spider’s web, invisible to the eye, a pine needle hangs and sways as if floating of its own accord in the air. Haphazardly under a light breeze, the thread catches a ray of sunshine that makes it turn golden. Thus is the mystery of our life unveiled: believing we run to and fro of our own accord, we are unaware of the unseen strand by which we hang. How many of those threads have been woven by a primal arachnidan self into the web of our fate with mathematical certainty? Our story does not unravel from past to future, it is entwined and hold together in the fiber of a finished tapestry.