There was that piano, covered in dust now and virtually worthless. Who would want anything broken? If it was broken, it could not serve its purpose, could not be of any use. What good was a piano that could not play music? Furthermore, what good was a man who could not feel?
A man who is hollow inside is about as good as a piano with no strings, and without strings the keys would simply be forced to the wooden frame in a hollow, fruitless collision of sound with no meaning.
A piano had potential when it was properly suited to fulfill its purpose. It played music and evoked emotion from those listening. But to a man who had no feeling, even a properly tuned instrument had no beauty. Without beauty there can be no passion. Without passion there is no life.
A hollow man may as well be dead.