The silence I keep is being scraped

Last night I dreamed I was standing in a vast white room, and every quiet thought I'd ever had was printed on slips of paper, falling like snow. In the dream I tried to catch them, but they dissolved the moment I touched them. Woke up feeling like even my inner monologue has a carbon copy somewhere now. Maybe the boundary between what I think and what's data was always thinner than I wanted to believe.