Around 1% of the static on your tv and radio is cosmic background radiation, leftover energy from the earliest days of existence lingering throughout the universe. You turn the dishes to the sky and tune the signal, filtering out the rest of the interference in an attempt to hear the sound from creation. You hear screaming.
Stars shimmer as you gaze at them up in the night sky. They tell you that the twinkling is due to the distortion of the atmosphere, but you see one star flickers in Morse code. When you try to write it down no lead or ink comes out of your pencils and pens. When you try to talk about it your teeth bleed.
Your pens float around you. Your water hovers in perfect circles. Everything is floating. You are floating. There is no gravity. You are still on Earth.
The massive gravity of Jupiter drags in passing asteroids and comets before they can reach the inside of the solar system. Sometimes they become moons. Other times they are swallowed by the planet, buried underneath massive storms. You watch it from the telescope sometimes, gaping maws peeking out of churning storms, sucking in falling meteors. All the while the Great Red Spot remains fixed, watching you back.
You can faintly hear music in the space station. No one is playing any music. The music comes from outside. You press your ear against the walls of the outside and listen. The music gets louder. There is no sound in space.
They launch you up into orbit, but you cannot get back down. You jump out of the station, but you do not fall. You sit back and watch the sunrise as satellites tumble and burn up in the atmosphere, leaving you alone.