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I'm so tired, Katniss.
Suzanne Collins
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Suzanne Collins
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: August 10
Executive Producer
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
Hartford
Connecticut
Suzanne Marie Collins
Suzanne Collins
Tired
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But Gale is not one to keep secrets from me. Katniss, there is no District Twelve.
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But I have to confess, I'm glad you two had at least a few months of happiness together. I'm not glad, says Peeta. I wish we had waited until the whole thing was done officially. This takes even Caesar aback. Surely even a brief time is better than no time? Maybe I'd think that, too, Caesar, says Peeta bitterly, If it weren't for t
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Fine. Somebody else can arrange to get the stupid goat knocked up.
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There was no discussion between them it was as if the bugs had worked out this whole scenario long ago. Temp put on a burst of speed for the end of the bridge, and Tick turned to face down the army of rats alone.
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They recognize me. Of course they recognize me. My face is uncovered and I'm standing here outside of District 12 pointing an arrow at them. Who else would I be?
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If he wants me broken, then I will have to be whole.
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The more likable he is, the more deadly he is.” -Katniss Everdeen
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It's ideal really. They will come up with a plan. No one will like it. Everyone will feel they have been treated unfairly, but will be happy that their neighbors feel the same. And that is the nature of compromise. Now let's go eat an awful lot.
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Better not to give in to it.
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My spirit. This is a new thought. I'm not sure exactly what it means, but it suggests I'm a fighter. In a sort of brave way. It's not as if I'm never friendly. Okay, maybe I don't go around loving everybody I meet, maybe my smiles are hard to come by, but i do care for some people.
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Haymich finally drops the good-natured act. you know who else, Katniss. You know who stepped up first. Of course I do. Gale.
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Katniss, got that spile? Finnick asks, snapping me back to reality.
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I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there's no relief in waking.
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While I was waiting...I ate your lunch.
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I send a silent thank-you to Dalton for suggesting I wash off the makeup. How ridiculous, how perverse I would feel presenting that painted Capitol mask to these people. The damage, the fatigue, the imperfections. That's how they recognize me, why I belong to them.
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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.
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The anguish I always feel when she's in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my face.
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What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again.
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I squeeze my eyes shut and try to reach for him across the hundreds and hundreds of miles, to send my thoughts into his mind, to let him know he is not alone. But he is. And I can't help him.
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