The sun persists in rising, so I make myself stand

We're supposed to be making up this stuff, playing at being in love, not actually being in love.

The morphlings from District 6 are in the camouflage station, painting each other's faces with bright pink swirls.

What do you think?" he asks. "I hate them," I say. I can almost smell the blood, the dirt, the unnatural breath of the mutt. "All I do is go around trying to forget the arena and you've brought it back to life. How do you remember these things so exactly?" "I see them every night," he says.

Doors are for those who lack enemies.

Please feel free to take this personally.

Making knots. Making knots. No word. Making knots. Tick-tock. This is a clock. Do not think of Gale. Do not think of Peeta. Making knots.