To Be Honest, I'm Not Much Of

You Don’t Forget The Face Of The Person Who Was Your Last Hope.

She Reaches In, Digs Her Hand Deep Into The Ball, And Pulls Out A Slip Of Paper. The Crowd Draws In A Collective Breath, And Then You Can Hear A Pin Drop, And I'm Feeling Nauseous And So Desperately Hoping That It's Not Me, That It's Not Me, That It's Not Me. Effie Trinket Crosses Back To The Podium, Smoothes The Slip Of Paper, And Reads Out The Name In A Clear Voice. And It's Not Me. It's Primrose Everdeen.

Maybe I'll Be Like That Man In "the Hanging Tree'. Still Waiting For An Answer.

It's Funny, Because Even Though They're Rattling On About The Games, It's All About Where They Were Or What They Were Doing Or How They Felt When A Specific Event Occurred. . . . Everything Is About Them, Not The Dying Boys And Girls In The Arena

But Once I Saw Fulvia Cardew Crumple Up A Sheet Of Paper With Just A Couple Of Words Written On It And You Would’ve Thought She’d Murdered Someone From The Looks She Got.