Telling A Story In A Futuristic World

I Feel Like I Owe Him Something, And I Hate Owing People. Maybe If I Had Thanked Him At Some Point, I'd Be Feeling Less Conflicted Now. I Thought About It A Couple Of Times, But The Opportunity Never Seemed To Present Itself. And Now It Never Will. Because We're Going To Be Thrown Into An Arena To Fight To The Death. Exactly How Am I Supposed To Work In A Thank-you In There? Somehow It Just Won't Seem Sincere If I'm Trying To Slit His Throat.

The Air's Warm With Hopeful Hints Of Spring In It. Spring Would Be A Good Time For An Uprising, I Think. Everyone Feels Less Vulnerable Once Winter Passes.

I Don't Want To Lose The Boy With The Bread.

It Must Be Very Fragile, If A Handful Of Berries Can Bring It Down.

I'll Tell Them How I Survive It. I'll Tell Them That On Bad Mornings, It Feels Impossible To Take Pleasure In Anything Because I'm Afraid It Could Be Taken Away. That's When I Make A List In My Head Of Every Act Of Goodness I've Seen Someone Do. It's Like A Game. Repetitive. Even A Little Tedious After More Than Twenty Years. But There Are Much Worse Games To Play.