What stings here isn't the morbidity—it's that Les Brown isn't warning us about death, but about *our own complicity in our unfulfilled lives*. The graveyard's wealth belongs to people who had every opportunity to withdraw it during their lifetimes; the tragedy isn't that dreams are mortal, but that we treat them as if we have infinite time to act on them. A friend of mine spent twenty years saying she'd write a novel "someday," and when she finally sat down at fifty-three, she discovered the discipline and voice had been there all along—she'd simply surrendered them to tomorrow. Brown's insight cuts deepest because it suggests the graveyard isn't fate; it's a monument to our own hesitation.