My last 35 years have passed in the blink of an eye.
I was a toddler yesterday, and here we are.
Suppose I live for 35 more, I don’t have much time (perhaps I never did).
Because it translates to—
420 months—or 420 books.
1,825 weeks—or 1,875 rounds of golf.
12,775 days—which includes 9,170 working days.
306,600 hours—there’s nothing in the millions.
Even as you turn to face your mirror, your maker, the clock ticks—
With whom do you spend your time?
What and to who will you say no to, with as much courage as acknowledgement takes?
What must you ignore, with all the will in the world?
How much time you got left?
What are you going to do about it?