From the FanPosts -Joel

Clear eyes. Full hearts. Still lost. Rats.

Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage! Rage against the dying of the light!

Maybe you're a Dylan Thomas fan. Maybe you're a fan of Rodney Dangerfield in Back to School. Either way, despite losing to Satan's afterbirth, and in complete contrast to everything I expect to express in these moments, I find myself at peace with the end.

I know, I know. Brady had enough time and room in the pocket to Riverdance, read tweets about how he was born of a virgin and make reservations for dinner after the game. Gronk SMASHed. Alex was off just enough to rocket the ball over finger tips in crucial red zone moments. Knile turned the ball over on the drive where we most needed to land a face punch. We punched ourselves in the face with late game clock mismanagement.

But somewhere in the void, in the disappointment, in the missed opportunity, in watching Goliath drop kick David in the huevos and then fly off with his mother and girlfriend to Hedonism II, I find myself feeling something deeper, resonant and undeniable: gratitude.

What we couldn't do or didn't do melts away quickly because of what we did do and who we refused to be. We were 1-5. Jamaal's knee was pudding. We were left for dead. Because we were dead. No one comes back from that. Not Frank Reich. Not Beatrix Kiddo. Not Rasputin. Not Jason Voorhees. Certainly not our Kansas City Chiefs.

And then, when I thought Andy Reid might be mumbling platitudes about how this is still a team of professionals with an abundance of pride and honor who would compete every game...when I thought all of my alibis to avoid three endless months of Sunday persecution by brunch or the IKEA bazaar with my insufferably-unsympathetic girlfriend had shrugged and peaced out....we did something undeniable, heroic and magnificent. We fought back the darkness. We declared that this season and our ascendance was just beginning. We raged.

So, before I return to the Whistlepig rye, let me turn these mental vibrations into the only words that I feel are appropriate tonight:

Thank you 2015-2016 Kansas City Chiefs.

Thank you for giving us a postseason win with a jettisoned 49ers quarterback who was born after the Eisenhower administration. Thank you Alex for never forgetting who you are. An intellect. An athlete. A guardian of possession who manages....to win. And win. And win.

Thank you for showing us that sometimes a Charles lost is a Charcandrick gained. That there was great depth to our depth. That our greatest strength was not in the wolf, but the pack. The next man upped. And upped. And upped.

Thank you for greatly reducing the number of shiitake and feta omelets I was forced to finish after my girlfriend took one bite while helping I-have-no-idea-who-you-are from her office pick out centerpieces for her wedding with some-guy-who-mercifully-didn't-have-to-be-there. Thank you for keeping me out of the bloody crucible of Swedish furniture outlets. Thank you so much for that.

Thank you Eric Berry for reminding us that football can mean nothing and teach us everything. I may forget this loss. I may forget the streak. But I will never forget how you shined and constantly reminded us that the greatest gift of life is in the magnificent living of it all. In the weakness. In the rote discipline of recovery. In the triumph. In the giving. In the rage against the dying of the light. For all of us, each and every day we are gifted.

So, yeah. All of that. I'm sure I'll swear and squirm and vomit if I have to watch another Brady-Manning rose ceremony next week, but for now my thoughts are pure and positive. We've shown how deep and diverse we can be. We've shown that we'll never quit. We've paid for our education in the playoffs. There's only one thing left to do:

Come back with fire. Come back with confident, unrelenting purpose. Come back and rage.