The Awful Thing Is That If I

Yeah, We Wouldn't Want To Lose Our Little Mockingjay When She's Finally Begun To Sing.

He Felt Around Desperately For A Weapon. What Did He Have? Diapers? Cookies? Oh, Why Hadn't They Given Him A Sword? He Was The Stupid Warrior, Wasn't He? His Fingers Dug In The Leather Bag And Closed Around The Root Beer Can. Root Beer! He Yanked Out The Can Shaking It With All His Might. "attack! Attack!" He Yelled.

But After Several Hours, I Go Anyway, Walking In Silent Sock Feet, So As Not To Awaken The Ghosts.

Everything Is Happening Too Fast For Me To Process It.

I'll Tell Them How I Survive It. I'll Tell Them That On Bad Mornings, It Feels Impossible To Take Pleasure In Anything Because I'm Afraid It Could Be Taken Away. That's When I Make A List In My Head Of Every Act Of Goodness I've Seen Someone Do. It's Like A Game. Repetitive. Even A Little Tedious After More Than Twenty Years. But There Are Much Worse Games To Play.