The Morphlings From District 6 Are In

Whenever I Write A Story, I Hope It Appeals To Both Boys And Girls.

Peeta, You Were Supposed To Wake Me After A Couple Of Hours," I Say. "for What? Nothing's Going On Here," He Says. "besides, I Like Watching You Sleep. You Don't Scowl. Improves Your Looks A Lot." This, Of Course, Brings On A Scowl That Makes Him Grin.

My Death Could, In Fact, Save Him. If It Can't, No Matter. It's Enough To Die Of Spite. To Punish Haymitch, Who, Of All The People In This Rotting World, Has Turned Peeta And Me Into Pieces In His Games. I Trusted Him. I Put What Was Precious In Haymitch's Hands. And He Has Betrayed Me.

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

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