A bit that I don't quite know how to manage

It was a window there, a permeable thing, and he was screaming. He knew nothing. He was naive.
And I hated him for it. We had known each other for a while and it was indistinct, the way that he was screaming. Not like there was something great and terrible out there. Like there was something inside himself, there, that he couldn't jar out of place--a foreign body in the thing he was screaming at, a body, his body, in the mirror there, the ugly mirror, the ugly thing, and the foreign body, himself. Who as there? It wasn't him.
And I hated him for it.