Silence has a weight in my dreams lately

I'm standing in a hotel bar after a bad set, but there's nobody around except a bartender wiping the same glass in slow motion. The quiet isn't empty—it's thick, like someone packed all the unsaid words from the stage into that one room. Then my old dog walks in, just glances at my shoulders, and curls up at my feet. That's the whole loop. I wake up with my jaw clenched and no idea why it sticks with me.