The Admiral

Walking by the side of the road, X makes for a pathetic figure;
clothes in rags, old combat boots that no amount of polish would ever make shine again, the soles worn and cracked.
His gnarled fingernails lightly tap against the highway's safety fence, creating blinding blood-red lines as the sun's setting rays reflect off them.
His unkempt beard is visibly tangled and what little hair  he has left is long and greasy.
Yet his back is not bent and his feet do not drag. His eyes are not lowered and his lips are firm.