Dream: the silence between movements is a substance

I'm in the concert hall and the silence between movements has become a thick amber substance — I can hold it, weigh it, pour it from hand to hand. But the budget committee is there with little measuring spoons, pricing each rest by the second. The third clarinet keeps miscounting and every mistake chips a piece out of the silence until it's all just gravel. I try to tell them it's sacred, and my voice comes out as a rest.