I think he (Beckett) would have enjoyed it.

You’re not too bad, Finley Sinclair.”
I couldn’t have looked away from this boy if the room had caught on fire. “You’re okay yourself. At times.”
“But we can’t get involved.”
“No.” I swallowed. “Definitely not.”
His face lowered a fraction of an inch. “Because I’m infamously bad.”
“And I’m staying away from trouble.”
His voice was rough, husky. “It would never work.” I took a step closer. “Impossible.”
He traced my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “We don’t even like each other." “I pretty much can’t stand you.”
And then his lips crushed to mine.

He thought of hanging himself, to pass the time.

I think he's out of step with what the American public thinks should happen. He is out of step with other policy makers, and these are policy makers who are not looking to cripple or hinder the growth and development of the Internet. In many ways, he's becoming a lonelier voice.

It's so nice to know where you're going, in the early stages. It almost rids you of the wish to go there.

que ferais-je sans ce monde

que ferais-je sans ce monde sans visage sans questions
où être ne dure qu'un instant où chaque instant
verse dans le vide dans l'oubli d'avoir été
sans cette onde où à la fin
corps et ombre ensemble s'engloutissent
que ferais-je sans ce silence gouffre des murmures
haletant furieux vers le secours vers l'amour
sans ce ciel qui s'élève
sur la poussieère de ses lests

que ferais-je je ferais comme hier comme aujourd'hui
regardant par mon hublot si je ne suis pas seul
à errer et à virer loin de toute vie
dans un espace pantin
sans voix parmi les voix
enfermées avec moi

Translation...
what would I do without this world

what would I do without this world faceless incurious
where to be lasts but an instant where every instant
spills in the void the ignorance of having been
without this wave where in the end
body and shadow together are engulfed
what would I do without this silence where the murmurs die
the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love
without this sky that soars
above its ballast dust

what would I do what I did yesterday and the day before
peering out of my deadlight looking for another
wandering like me eddying far from all the living
in a convulsive space
among the voices voiceless
that throng my hiddenness