The woods always look different at night...as if the daytime trees and flowers and stones had gone to bed and sent slightly more ominous versions of themselves to take their places.

If there's a more helpless feeling than trying to reach someone you love who's trapped underground, I don't know it.

They don't own me. If I'm gonna die, I wanna still be me.

If I feel ragged, my prep team seems in worse condition, knocking back coffee and sharing brightly colored little pills. As far as I can tell, they never get up before noon unless there's some sort of national emergency, like my leg hair.

turn and turn and turn again you see the what, but not the when remedy and wrong entwine and so they form a single vine

Plutarch rushes to reassure me. "Oh, no, Katniss. Not your wedding. Finnick and Annie's. All you need to do is show up and pretend to be happy for them." "That's one of the few things I won't have to pretend, Plutarch," I tell him.

The awful thing is that if i can forget they're people, it will be no different at all