From Feste's Self-Help Book

Childhood You came into this world trailing clouds all right, they just happened to be big black ones. In the castle you drank from a poisoned goblet and were changed into something even bears cringe at. When you awake baling-wired in thorns, viceroys around you cobwebbed to their steins, moth-eaten ermines, a muttering king— what choice do you have? Rappel down the turret with your cap and bells. Adolescence Handed a baton in a bad-luck relay, you've overshot the cliff and are pinwheeling down, flailing in time to that whistling-wind keening that lets viewers know you will soon be compressed under a subsequent sequence of rocks. Squashed into pleats a centimeter wide? Stride till you're 3-D again. Adulthood You're staggering through a dark wood, soundtrack a fugue. Remember wrens risk a hand for a single seed, orchids can sprout from duff alone. Executive Summary How many can you feed from your sourdough lumps? Each morning, braid a loaf. Give them away.