So, In A Way, My Name Being

We Have To Joke About It Because The Alternative Is To Be Scared

Your Favorite Colour . . . It's Green?" "that's Right." Then I Think Of Something To Add. "and Yours Is Orange." "orange?" He Seems Unconvinced. "not Bright Orange. But Soft. Like The Sunset," I Say. "at Least, That's What You Told Me Once." "oh." He Closes His Eyes Briefly, Maybe Trying To Conjure Up That Sunset, Then Nods His Head. "thank You." But More Words Tumble Out. "you're A Painter. You're A Baker. You Like To Sleep With The Windows Open. You Never Take Sugar In Your Tea. And You Always Double-knot Your Shoelaces.

You'll Never Be Able To Let Him Go. You'll Always Feel Wrong About Being With Me.

What Must It Be Like, I Wonder, To Live In A World Where Food Appears At The Press Of A Button?

I Wish They Were All Dead And We Were, Too. It Would Be Best." Well, There's No Good Response To That. I Can Hardly Dispute It Since I Was Walking Around With A Syringe To Kill Peeta When I Found Them. Do I Really Want Him Dead? What I Want...what I Want Is To Have Him Back.