Doors Are For Those Who Lack Enemies.

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.

I Feel Like I Owe Him Something, And I Hate Owing People. Maybe If I Had Thanked Him At Some Point, I'd Be Feeling Less Conflicted Now. I Thought About It A Couple Of Times, But The Opportunity Never Seemed To Present Itself. And Now It Never Will. Because We're Going To Be Thrown Into An Arena To Fight To The Death. Exactly How Am I Supposed To Work In A Thank-you In There? Somehow It Just Won't Seem Sincere If I'm Trying To Slit His Throat.

Deep In The Meadow , Under The Willow , A Bed Of Grass , A Soft Green Pillow

We're Supposed To Be Making Up This Stuff, Playing At Being In Love, Not Actually Being In Love.

He Could Have Had His Choice Of Any Woman In The District. And He Chose Solitude. Not Solitude – That Sounds Too Peaceful. More Like Solitary Confinement.