If victory had a taste, it would taste like honeyed ash. A sweetness to cover up the bitterness, something to make up for the nothing of it all. For victory is not a celebration, but a devastation, and it leaves no winners. Victory pours down your throat and down to your burning lungs, ignited by the effort of killing - and for a moment is quenches. But the fire revives and year after year you blacken inside until there is nothing left to feel. Victory has a taste that lingers and insists on its stay.