I dreamed I was a busker in a city made of pipes

I was playing a guitar that was half metal pipe, half wood, and every note made the whole city hum. Kids were climbing the pipes like vines, laughing, catching the sound in their hands. I didn’t know why I was there—just that the corner where I played had a fountain that ran on old hymns. When I stopped, the water froze mid-splash. No one said anything. Just stood there, waiting for the next chord.