But after several hours, I go anyway, walking in silent sock feet, so as not to awaken the ghosts.

I guess this is a bad time to mention I hung a dummy and painted Seneca Crane's name on it.

As coal pressured into pearls by our weighty existence. Beauty that arose out of pain.

But between the images, we are privy to the real-life action being played out on the set. Peeta's attempt to continue speaking. The camera knocked down to record the white tiled floor. The scuffle of boots. The impact of the blow that's inseparable from Peeta's cry of pain. And his blood as it splatters the tiles.

Winning means fame and fortune. Losing means certain death. The Hunger Games have begun.

I wish Peeta were here to hold me, until I remember I'm not supposed to wish that anymore. I have chosen Gale and the rebellion, and a future with Peeta is the Capitol's design, not mine.

Is that why you hate me?" I ask. "Partly," She admits. "Jealousy is certainly involved. I also think you're a little hard to swallow. With your tacky romantic drama and your defender-of-the-helpless act. Only it isn't an act, which makes you more unbearable. Please feel free to take this personally.