Went through [[Harry Potter]], followed by a brief respite with Wild Cards, but then completely caught up in and consumed by [[The Hunger Games]]. I liked it. A lot. Reminds me of [[Ender's Game]], which I should probably read next. But those three books, and I treat the septology and trilogy as single books, but not including Wild Cards, but the protagonist, always a child, too good for the world they live in, and are thrust into leadership and greatness, unasked for, unbidden. Childhood lost. In 2, love, too young, but a source of fear. And melancholy. And I lap it up. Consumes me. I embrace it, the heavy heart, the mindfulness, the musings. The epilogues, seemingly so happy, yet I can think of nothing but what was lost to get there, to that point. What these kids did, what they had to do, so young. So capable. Is it hope? Hope for the children? That there still is opportunity of greatness? That a child shall lead them? That we, the adults, can no longer save ourselves? And still I hold it close, the quiet, the thoughtfulness, the melancholy. Always the melancholy.