You Know, You're Kind Of

The Walls Of This Elevator Are Made Of Crystal So That You Can Watch The People On The Ground Floor Shrink To Ants As You Shoot Up Into The Air. It's Exhilarating And I'm Tempted To Ask Effie Trinket If We Can Ride It Again, But Somehow That Seems Childish.

I Realize Only One Person Will Be Damaged Beyond Repair If Peeta Dies. Me.

There's No Point In Comforting Words, In Telling Her She'll Be All Right. She's No Fool. Her Hand Reaches Out And I Clutch It Like A Lifeline. As If It's Me Who's Dying Instead Of Rue.

Here's Some Advice. Stay Alive.

My Little Sister, Prim, Curled Up On Her Side, Cocooned In My Mother’s Body, Their Cheeks Pressed Together. In Sleep, My Mother Looks Younger, Still Worn But Not So Beaten-down. Prim’s Face Is As Fresh As A Raindrop, As Lovely As The Primrose For Which She Was Named. My Mother Was Very Beautiful Once, Too. Or So They Tell Me.