Empty; everything that comes out of him is empty. He’s hollowed-out, because only emptiness can come out of a hole.
Even with this emptied version of himself, there’s nowhere he can hide the skeletons in his life, strung out with bones chattering together like a congregation of old wives. And all their dancing wears him out, tired of being tested and questioned and lectured by his own frustrations.
He’s not sure how much longer his innocence can keep his head up while he’s emptied in this way. He’s not sure how much longer he’d be willing to listen to the world tear his case to pieces and put underneath a fine-toothed comb, nor see them touch and taste everything before declaring that something’s not quite right, as if they have the power to form and set certainties.
But even while in the state of emptiness, he can somehow still feel much more sharply than before, minus the distractions, so there’s no mistaking that he’s still alive. In a way, it’s worse than the apathy he’s seen others succumb to, but at least he knows enough now to understand that being “full” can only be achieved by someone who still cares.
He’s running on nothing but empty, and knows that when even a little wholeness comes to him, he’d recognise it right away, and find the one good thing that he can keep forever.