I Can't Argue That Finnick Isn't One

If Under Fell, If Over Leaped, If Death Was Life And Death Life Reaped, Something Rises From The Gloom, To Make The Underland A Tomb Hear It Scratching Down Below, Rat Of Long Forgotten Snow, Evil Cloaked In Coat Of White, Will The Warrior Drain Your Light? What Could Turn The Warrior Week? What Do Burning Gnawers Seek? Just A Barely Speaking Pup That Holds The Land Of Under Up Die The Baby, Die His Heart Die His Most Essential Part Die The Peace That Rules The Hour, Gnawers Have Their Key To Power

Yes. I Killed Him. And Buried Her In Flowers," I Say. "and I Sang Her To Sleep.

It's Funny, Because Even Though They're Rattling On About The Games, It's All About Where They Were Or What They Were Doing Or How They Felt When A Specific Event Occurred. . . . Everything Is About Them, Not The Dying Boys And Girls In The Arena

If It's True, Why Do They Leave Us To Live Like This? With The Hunger And The Killings And The Games?" And Suddenly I Hate This Imaginary Underground City Of District 13 And Those Who Sit By, Watching Us Die. They're No Better Than The Capitol.

One More Time? For The Audience?" He Says. His Voice Isn't Angry. It's Hollow, Which Is Worse. Already The Boy With The Bread Is Slipping Away From Me. I Take His Hand, Holding On Tightly, Preparing For The Cameras, And Dreading The Moment When I Will Finally Have To Let Go.