The salt from the tears of the fallen, sugar from the joy of the victors, tang from the fruits of providence, coalescing, swimming, materializing in the Aether. The raucous expression of unfettered joy and hopeless abandonment into the void of ecstasy, the fires of victory burn on, flickering at the edges and keeping away the darkness for a moment. Above all, time stands over the celebrations of the victorious, knowing that the fruit will turn bitter, and the salt will intensify, and this hard one victory will begin to shear off from the present and eventually fester into the shear fecundity of expanse of time. Moving onwards, forever ingesting all in its path, victor and defeated alike. Time takes it all.