Wind passes straight through.
No resistance left to catch it. Nothing lands anymore—not the ache, not the warmth, not even the burn of black coffee. Just hollow rooms I walk through without footprints. Still moving.
The void never asks me to stop.
only loyal thing I’ve got
My 4-year-old son drew that picture I have in my pfp. An innocent drawing I seen deeper meaning to. Why does he look so empty? Broken even. Crazy how something so stupidly simple gets me to ponder like this.
We’ve all have known this feeling —
not joy, not sorrow… but a quiet emptiness.
The Empty Man stands for those endless wanderers —
a place where the hollow is understood,
and the void no longer has to be faced alone.