I dreamed silence was a physical thing being mined

I'm standing in a rehearsal hall and the air has weight to it — pockets of silence hanging like wet sheets from the ceiling, and workers in budget-meeting suits are clipping pieces off with shears, packaging them for some AI that needs quiet to train on. The third clarinet keeps asking me if I've heard the new tool that stitches photos into one scene, and I try to explain that what I'm losing isn't the photos, it's the gap between them. Then the ceiling tears and all the silence pours out like grain.