The Sea Inside is a great title; so is A Wrinkle In Time, The Way We Were and The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

I don't know why i suddenly thought of them, or why they all make me vaguely sad. None of these works are connected in any way, and I haven't even watched The Sea Inside. The Way We Were and The Unbearable Lightness of Being are inherently depressing, so it might make sense, but A Wrinkle In Time? I loved that book when I when I was a kid - it was imaginative and wonderful and gorgeously written. Maybe it's because of latent desire to go back to a younger, simpler time (though i rarely want to revisit my childhood - i was a terrible kid).

Yes, I realize this is completely pointless, and I should get back to doing something productive, but, I mean, why these? Why not Fake Plastic Trees or Leaving Las Vegas or End of The Affair?

Okay, Okay, I'm gone.