Who tills the path of man, who draws the map? Who draws the dotted lines, who fills the gap? Are we in this life mere pawns. Or active players of our own moves. And in this life of agonising thorns, who draws the spaces to make the moves. And where there is murder at the mall, war at the gate and suffering on the street, are we the architects of our own fall, or a duex ex machina with dramatic feat, is urging our performance at killing his enemy. I mean what really is destiny.