Inescapable air, everywhere, even all the way up there. At its thinnest, most rigid. At its highest, dispersed from its earthly proximity, it finds its freedom and its prison. Each particle apart, still able to heat up but unable to share it. Space can’t know its potential force. It can't even know itself with so much space, but it still exists there, in the curtain’s folds of black and nothingness. The atmosphere here sings a high strung song and can’t be heard by everyone.
If you fall from it and into it you won’t hear a thing, except the ring, of silence. Then with your feet on the ground the air will have sound. It will have heat to give to your skin