Oh, Peeta, Don't make me sorry I restarted your heart.

I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression but you.

I start to crack at four hundred to one.

I'm almost there, almost to the barricade, when I thinks she hears me. Because for just a moment, she catches sight of me, her lips form my name. And that's when the rest of the parachutes go off.

Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me. Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

On and on we seal the pages with salt water and promises to live well to make their deaths count.

If you won't talk about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep turning it back around, all right. Gush.