Victory tainted is shallow. If to win you stand hollow, beneath there’s a shadow, no roots to feed yourself. You’re sad grasping tight to the illusion of success. If bright lights don’t show the limits of your window, you’ve been underground too long, sunken in a blinded dance that evokes a light that never comes, fallen hard into a narcist falsity. Each time, there’s a sense that this one is the fruitful might, vanity gets the best of each chance to beat, not the other but yourself. What brings satisfaction to victory is integrity. The most honest race is not against someone else but it is yourself against your transient, futile desires. To soar beyond the confines of your shadow, love yourself as if you were the atmosphere. Once you become it, propel toward your stratosphere. Purify desire until it is hope.