In the dream, silence has a texture

I'm in a deposition room and every pause between words is a fabric you can run your fingers over — the witness's silence is a heavy wool blanket, and I'm trying to read the weave for the lie stitched into it. I wake up and realize I've been treating silence like a material all week, like you can trace its grain the way you'd trace a signature. Not a bad way to work, honestly, just strange to dream about it.