The Admiral closed the door. He knew not what to do. Two roads laid before him, the same roads Frost trod, only different, with a pallor of a white mid-class sedan that sits forever and ever along the beltway and gives up forever and ever, a t-shirt, with a baseball team imprinted upon its front, that seems to say to every lonely commuter and every chuckling carpool and every roving police officer, “I give up.” When I say pallor, I don’t know if I mean the pallor of the Admiral, or the pallor of the two roads, or perhaps I simply launched into a diversion, like an itch that must be scratched, while in the midst of a traffic-laden commute, inside a white mid-class sedan, an itch, in fact, that is located right up the nose, the type of itch that when scratched, and therefore satisfied, seems to attract the eyes of a commuter, who happens to look over at the precise moment of itch, housed within some passing car, like a ship passing through the night upon two roads, and gawks as you pick your nose. And, what seems most amazing, at least to me, is that one finger up a nostril is much like a foot or ship traveling upon a road that runs parallel to another road nostril or even a foot.