It's not easy to find a topic. Talking of home is painful. Talking of the present unbearable.

In our world, I rank music somewhere between hair ribbons and rainbows in terms of usefulness.

Why don't I just pretend I'm on camera, Plutarch?" I say. "Yes! Perfect. One is always much braver with an audience," he says. "Look at the courage Peeta just displayed!" It's all I can do not to slap him.

I merely feel emptyness. A hollow of dead brush where flowers use to bloom.

The heat of the bread burned into my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life.

Why am I hopping around like some trained dog trying to please people I hate?

Please feel free to take this personally.