Eyes on the forest, not on the trees.

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim`s warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the Reaping.

maybe it's that we are all so starved for something good to happen that we want to be a part of it.

You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces.

I don't want to cry. Everyone will make note of my tears and I'll be marked as an easy target. A weakling. I will give no one that satisfaction.

Katniss, there is no District Twelve.

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.