The weight of all the not-said

I'm standing in a library at 7pm, but every book on the shelves has blank pages. Between the covers, though, I hear a faint hum — like someone is breathing just on the other side of the paper. I'm frantically trying to translate that sound into words, but every time I almost grasp it, the library dims. That's it — the whole dream is just that loop of nearly catching something that refuses to be spoken.