they walked in absolute science

I came across a phrase I'd written in one of the half-dozen or so writing projects I'm working on at any given time; ideas, new stories, sequels to old ones, prequels to the sequel of the spinoff starring a secondary character's niece's best friend, so on. Most will never see the light of day, but that's fine. "They walked in absolute science."

I believe that I meant "they walked in absolute silence." I'd written that sentence several weeks ago, so I can't vouch for my thought process or my mental state at the time. A sentence like this brings to mind a few things. One, the importance of editing. Two, the infuriating inadequacies of a spell-checker. Three, that the human brain is fascinatingly inefficient. There I was, tapping furiously on some piece of plastic with alphanumeric characters printed all over it, listening to some kind of music my parents would probably find irritating, dreaming up people and places and actions. Everything was going swimmingly until the word "silence" popped into my head. Then I go and type a completely different word with a wholly unrelated meaning: science. Good job, Lucas.

Am I really thinking aloud every word I type before I type it? And if so, am I really mishearing myself? There has got to be a better way to do this. Maybe they can implant some sort of neurological booster directly into my brain. Or maybe graft a more efficient messaging system down the length of my spinal cord. How long until the day I can simply think and the words appear onscreen? Come on, science. Help me out here.