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Master and Margarita


Last night at "Master and Margarita," Margarita was told that grief had aged her. Looking at my tired face, I can't help but feel the last two years, with their never ending sense of loss, with things given and then taken away, have aged me more han the previous ten. I've certainly done more crying and spent more time than I can count feeling broken and that my future has little joy to look forward to.

Oh for Azazello and his pot of cream, or even for the curious orange pill and the feeling of loss to disappear, or, without that, for the hope that somehow things will actually get better, rather than the feeling that I can survive but will never really be happy again.

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