I'm So Tired, Katniss.

I'm Not A Very Fancy Person. I've Been A Writer A Long Time, And Right Now 'the Hunger Games' Is Getting A Lot Of Focus. It'll Pass. The Focus Will Be On Something Else. It'll Shift. It Always Does. And That Seems Just Fine.

It's Not Easy To Find A Topic. Talking Of Home Is Painful. Talking Of The Present Unbearable.

To The Everlasting Credit Of The People Of District 12, Not One Person Claps. Not Even The Ones Holding Betting Slips, The Ones Who Are Usually Beyond Caring. Possibly Because They Know Me From The Hob, Or Knew My Father, Or Have Encountered Prim, Who No One Could Help Loving. So Instead Of Acknowledging Applause, I Stand There Unmoving While They Take Part In The Boldest Form Of Dissent They Can Manage. Silence. Which Says We Do Not Agree. We Do Not Condone. All Of This Is Wrong.

She's Really Gone, Then. The Little Girl With The Back Of Her Shirt Sticking Out Like A Duck Tail.

No One Really Needs Me," He Says, And There Is No Self-pity In His Voice. It's True His Family Doesn't Need Him. They Will Mourn Him, As Will A Handful Of Friends. But They Will Get On. Even Haymitch, With The Help Of A Lot Of White Liquor, Will Get On. I Realize Only One Person Will Be Damaged Beyond Repair If Peeta Dies. Me. "i Do," I Say. "i Need You.