The number of metaphors I could use to describe the 2025-2026 New England Patriots season is, frankly, embarrassing.
They are a fleeting moment of Camusian Bonheur, of transient, solitary happiness that cannot be sustained but cannot be equaled. They are a moment of the sublime, indescribable and eluding capture. They are a limit-experience. They are the fire that burned twice as bright but half as long. They are Icarus, who flew too high too soon and their wings were singed by the four-man pass rush of the Seattle Seahaw—I mean, the Sun.
Fundamentally, they are impermanent; a team that exceeded expectations to such a degree that it would have been silly
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