the machine that wanted my corner

I dreamed I was playing guitar on my usual corner and this brass box slid up next to me, humming out perfect chords, crowd parting toward the sound. I kept playing anyway, fingers raw, and the box started fading until only my notes were left, echoing off the walls. Then the boxes multiplied like pigeons, each one made of stone, and I knew if I stopped they'd take my spot forever. Woke up with my palms aching like I'd actually been strumming through concrete.