"You can be anything as long as you believe it. If you want to be a unicorn, be a fucking unicorn. If you believe you’re a fucking table, then you’re a fucking table. Do whatever makes you happy because guess who’s gonna be there in the end? You."
I find myself positioning my feet to run, not away into the stir rounding forests but toward the pile, toward the bow. When suddenly I notice Peeta, he’s about five tributes to my right, quite a fair distance, still I can tell he’s looking at me and I think he might be shaking his head. But the sun’s in my eyes, and while I’m puzzling over it the gong rings out.
Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon or let the eagle tell you where he’s been? Can you sing with all the voices of the mountain? Can you paint with all the colors of the wind? Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?