Because When He Sings...even The Birds Stop

Here Began Countless Days Of Hunting And Snaring, Fishing And Gathering, Roaming Together Through The Woods, Unloading Our Thoughts While We Filled Our Game Bags. This Was The Doorway To Both Sustenance And Sanity. And We Were Each Other's Key.

Sometimes, When I Clean A Kill, I Feed Buttercup The Entrails. He Has Stopped Hissing At Me. Entrails. No Hissing. This Is The Closest We Will Ever Come To Love.

Let The Seventy-forth Hunger Games Begin, Cato, I Think. Let Them Begin For Real.

While I Was Waiting...i Ate Your Lunch.

If He Goes And Dies On Me Now, I Know I'll Go Completely Insane.