I dreamt silence had a weight

I'm standing in a rehearsal hall and the quiet is a kind of fabric, stretched between the ceiling beams, sagging where the budget cuts land. I keep trying to patch it with my baton, but every stitch makes a tiny electronic hum, and the third clarinet keeps telling me it's not loud enough to matter. I wake up the way I always do lately — convinced the room is emptier than it was the night before.