The start of a run is like the start of a writing session: First you resist, then you threaten to quit, then you roll your eyes and hunker down, and then suddenly you sprout wings and take flight.

A pure heart faces the worst kind of evil in this world. But as it sleeps it's blessed, and it wakes up cleansed and a little bit stronger.

Those who aren't afraid to cry are the dreamers, and those who aren't afraid to lament are the lovers. The rest are just miserable.

I experience the same level of intense concentration watching a thrilling tennis match as I do hunched over a heaping pile of warm socks diligently searching for exact matches.

I am Cinna's bird, ignited, flying frantically to escape something inescapable. The feathers of flame that grow from my body. Beating my wings only fans the blaze. I consume myself, but to no end.
Finally, my wings begin to falter, I lose height, and gravity pulls me into a foamy sea the color of Finnick's eyes. I float on my back, which continues to burn beneath the water, but the agony quiets to pain. When I am adrift and unable to navigate, that's when they come. The dead.
The ones I loved fly as birds in the open sky above me. Soaring, weaving, calling to me to join them. I want so badly to follow them, but the seawater saturates my wings, making it impossible to lift them. The ones I hated have taken to the water, horrible scaled things that tear my salty flesh with needle teeth. Biting again and again. Dragging me beneath the surface.
The small white bird tinged in pink dives down, buries her claws in my chest, and tries to keep me afloat.
"No, Katniss! No! You can't go!"
But the ones I hated are winning, and if she clings to me, she'll be lost as well. "Prim, let go!" And finally she does.

Sometimes you just have to leap, and build your wings on the way down.