P.

I was strolling idly in P, the capital famous for its resplendent post office, when I found a long sleepy street dug up and unattended. A whole industry lay there, resting in the hot sun. Surveying the worn metal and thick grease of the heavy plant machinery, I was disturbed by a passing drunk who appeared from nowhere. In his delirium, he jumped into an open cab and pretended to operate the long levers, until, just as suddenly, his interest was lost and he slipped quietly away. Later, that night I awoke sweating, heart thumping against the sullen hotel bed, just before a thundering steamroller bore down on me, up to my neck in hot tarmac.