You spend the rest of the day just like that, floating. Attached by a string to the balloon salesman's stall, softly bobbing around as the wind blew you. You watch, as there’s nothing else to see, as children and grownups buy the balloons around you before going about their day, the salesman blowing up new balloons by tank or mouth.
Over time, less and less people came to get balloons until there was nobody around, meaning the park must be closing. Checking his watch, the balloon salesman pulled out a small plastic bag of balloons and started packing up, grabbing the balloons nearest to him and shoving them, still inflated, back into the bag - which remained as small as ever. You watched, frightened, as he began even to push pieces of his stall into the bag alongside the balloons, them somehow fitting into the much smaller opening, and not bulging the sides of the bag in the process either.
Exceptionally soon, the salesman began pulling down the balloons around you. The salesman paused, cracking a small, knowing grin before grabbing you and pushing you down, down into the bag with the other balloons. You can’t see very well, surrounded on all sides with an endless mass of balloons, both uninflated and already full, like an endless crushing embrace.