There is a spider on my bag.  I look at it and consider scale, as we have just considered the contrast of scale between gods and men on the Olympian pediments.  My bag is an entire world to the spider, or perhaps a large continent of the world it knows; Old World and New World.  I turn my bag as the spider explores it—does it perceive the rotation?  The spider abandons its revolving world and leaps to a more stable one—my face.  I recoil and it retreats back to Bag, but I do not shrink away the second time and instead replace it on controlled, controllable Bag.  My body is a larger world, too big of an entity to be perceived as such.  How then would the spider ever bite me?  We do not bite the world we live on.  But then I remember—we do.  Ariane recites Nietzsche and I wonder if the spider can hear it.  If so, does it comprehend it?  Does it have a philosophy, and how does it apply it to this world, and what would it think if it knew the tininess of its world, or if it made it all the way from Bag to Ariane's shoes?  The Columbus of Bag.  National spider holiday on the one-spider world of Bag.  At least the only war it could fight would be against itself.  Now the spider is gone, or perhaps I have only ceased to perceive it.