The absolute value of a human being—that is, without regard to sign—renders the average Piscean in the shape of Gemini's bell-shaped curves, while the bullish Taurus inherits the finer points of Leo's voracious maw.
But mama's head, expounding on the spokes of the cosmic wheel, never promised us a rose garden. Post-natal drip, she said, will come and grow, wild and free, among the patches we sew on our bell-bottom jeans.
This is the promise of spring—that immortal coil—that winds among the doubled strands of the helix that calls us home, for supper is but one repast on the menu of human possibilities.
Taste not, want not, and so shall it be until it dawns on the piper to open the gate.