Reflecting

I know they're in there, I heard shots, heard yelling. But what can I see from here? Nothing but lamplight, its fake promise of home and warmth, not even a promise anymore, not even false hope to cling on to, oh he's dead, isn't he?
Clint? Can you hear me speaking in silence to you?
You hang on, Clint Dempsey.
Please, Clint, please...
I'm heading for that window. Even if I cant see in, maybe Clint can see out.
And the closer I get, what can I see? Nothing, except my own mucky reflection staring lifelessly, soullessly, back at me.