Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
-- Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5
I am pretty sure I was not quite five years old. Sherry Sanders had a swing in her yard for her baby brother. On a visit to her house (next door to ours) I attempted to climb into this vacant portable swing despite Sherry's warnings that I was too big. (I have a feeling she heard that admonishment from her parents when she had attempted the same thing.) Nevertheless, my mission was already established. Climbing into the cloth seat the entire apparatus collapsed and I tumbled down their very steep driveway (probably slightly sloped), crashing into the rocks (probably pebbles) at the bottom, and cut my head open (probably a scratch).