I Don't Think It's Going To Work

Peeta Smiles And Douses Haymitch's Knife In White Liquor From A Bottle On The Floor. He Wipes The Blade Clean On His Shirt Tail And Slices The Bread. Peeta Keeps All Of Us In Fresh Baked Goods. I Hunt. He Bakes. Haymitch Drinks. We Have Our Own Ways To Stay Busy, To Keep Thought Of Our Time As Contestants In The Hunger Games At Bay.

The Walls Of This Elevator Are Made Of Crystal So That You Can Watch The People On The Ground Floor Shrink To Ants As You Shoot Up Into The Air. It's Exhilarating And I'm Tempted To Ask Effie Trinket If We Can Ride It Again, But Somehow That Seems Childish.

Panem Et Circenses" Translates Into 'bread And Circuses.' The Writer Was Saying That In Return For Full Bellies And Entertainment, His People Had Given Up Their Political Responsibilities And Therefore Their Power.

She’s Really Gone, Then. The Little Girl With The Back Of Her Shirt Sticking Out Like A Duck Tail, The One Who Needed Help Reaching The Dishes, And Who Begged To See The Frosted Cakes In The Bakery Window. Time And Tragedy Have Forced Her To Grow Too Quickly, At Least For My Taste, Into A Young Woman Who Stitches Bleeding Wounds And Knows Our Mother Can Hear Only So Much.

Something Flickers Across His Bloodshot Eyes. Pain.