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.

What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where food appears at the press of a button?

I'm on a frosting sailboat, tossed around by blue-green waves, the deck shifting beneath my feet.

But don't worry; as I've been saying - and this has been very clever of me, I'm sure you'll agree - if you put enough pressure on coal, it'll turn to pearls!

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

But just the fact that he was sparkling leads me to doubt everything that happened.

We star-crossed lovers of District 12, who suffered so much and enjoyed so little the rewards of our victory, do not seek our fans' favor, grace them with our smiles, or catch their kisses. We are unforgiving. And I love it. Getting to be myself at last.