I’m 92 years old. I’ve outlived my wife, my friends, my enemies—and the version of myself that cared what people thought. Standing at the edge of life, I see the truth clearly, and before I go, I need to share it with you. You’re living a lie, and you don’t even realize it.

You walk through your days as if you have an infinite supply of time, treating each moment as if it’s cheap. But the reality is, we are all running out of time. You know this in your head, but you don’t feel it in your bones. If you did, you wouldn’t live the way you do.

Let me tell you about my friend Jack. In 1968, Jack was smarter, richer, and more successful than me. He always had a plan: “Five more years of grinding, then I’ll live. I’ll take my wife to Italy, learn to paint, start living.”

Three days later, he died of a heart attack at 42. He never went to Italy. He never painted anything. The tragedy wasn’t just his death—it was that he spent his whole life waiting to live. After he died, his calendar was still full, his inbox overflowing, but the world moved on. His company replaced him in two weeks. His clients forgot him in a year. Right now, I see so many of you living just like Jack, telling yourselves you’ll be happy “later.” But there is no later—there is only now.

I look at your generation and see an obsession with stuff. You buy things you don’t need, with money you don’t have, to impress people you don’t even like. I used to have a big house, luxury cars, and a garage full of toys.

Now, I live in a small room with a bed, a chair, and a photo of my wife. With the clarity of the endgame, I can tell you: it’s all garbage. When you die, your kids will hire strangers to throw most of your precious stuff into a dumpster. The rest will sell for quarters at a yard sale. That’s the sum total of your materialism—future trash. Why sacrifice your life for it?

Let me tell you about my big victory: winning Businessman of the Year in 1979. That night, I held my trophy alone in the dark, realizing the applause had stopped and the people who truly loved me upstairs had been neglected for months.

I missed my son’s games and my anniversary dinner for work. That trophy is now lost in some basement, but the memory of my wife’s sad eyes when I broke a promise is still vivid. Your career isn’t your legacy—it’s a transaction. If you died today, your job would be posted online before your obituary.

So what matters? The only things you get to keep are the things you give away: love, time, connection. At 92, I don’t replay business deals—I replay Sunday mornings with my wife, my daughter’s laughter, helping a stranger. That’s real wealth.

Here’s my advice: Kill your ego—nobody is watching you, they’re too busy worrying about themselves. Practice “the last time”—remember every moment could be the last. Wake up—use your health and youth, experience life, forgive, love, and don’t wait. Life’s clock is ticking. Don’t let it run out empty. I’m tired now. Go live.