Peeta crouches down on the other side of her and strokes her hair. When he begins to speak in a soft voice, it seems almost nonsensical, but the words aren’t for me. “With my paint box at home, I can make every color imaginable. Pink. As pale as a baby’s skin. Or as deep as rhubarb. Green like spring grass. Blue that shimmers like ice on water.

Since Mags seems to have no ill effects from the nuts, Peeta collects bunches of them and fries them by bouncing them off the force field.

Want a sugar cube?" he asks in his old seductive voice.

Tick tock, this is a clock.

Because I can count on my fingers the number of sunsets I have left, and I don't want to miss any of them.

When I was young I was trained in stage fighting and rapier and dagger, for several years.

But collective thinking is usually short-lived. We're fickle, stupid beings with poor memories and a great gift for self-destruction.