Well you are a piece of work aren't you?

If I get home, I'll be so stinking rich, I'll be able to pay someone to do my hearing.

Because when he sings...even the birds stop to listen.

Really, the combination of the scabs and the ointment looks hideous. I can't help enjoying his distress. "Poor Finnick. Is this the first time in your life you haven't looked pretty?" I say. "It must be. The sensation's completely new. How have you managed it all these years?" he asks. "Just avoid mirrors. You'll forget about it," I say. "Not if I keep looking at you," he says.

It's weird, how much he's noticed me... And apparently, I have not been as oblivious to him as I imagined, either.

If my holding out those berries was an act of temporary insanity, then those people will embrace insanity too.

I remember the first time I saw you. Your hair was in two braids instead of one. And I remember when you... you sang in the music assembly and the teacher said... "Who knows The Valley Song?" and your hand shot straight up. After that, I... I watched you going home every day...