I'm in a very severe Maysilee/Haymitch phase right now. So
enjoy.  10/21/11- Revised just for a few stupid mistakes I
didn't catch until about the tenth time I read it.  The sound
pierces his reverie, tugging his mind back into his physical
surroundings. The present. Who invented that word anyway? What
we do, what we feel, what we dream- fanatics rush to string out
these humanities on a timeline in a disbelieving fear of the
fact that we are all going to die one day. The fear that our
significance is compatible with a grain of sand, skirting along
on the wind, fading into the flecks of dirt stirring before a
setting sun. Unimportant. When the fact is, everything just
happens.  He abandons his spark of inspiration and moves
stealthily towards the sound, his thoughts still smoldering.
Normally, he would have been thinking something like, I was
right; she couldn't last ten minutes without me, or, Another
tribute I didn't have to kill, and gone about his business. But
for some reason, his legs carry him through t