What if people were balloons

Them particular balloons were friends by chance. Most of course neatly expect what they just do. They are balloons; pompous alteration of inflated rubber, reds tingling yellows burnt into carriage baby eyes; rifting greens pin-striping obnoxious-nosious skies, except at night. Unheliumized is a condition balloons savvy as never quite there. Consequently the only pleasure believed worthy comes from an act of being filled; par nitrous gas, and inflamed by a nameless servant laughing unmistakably aloud. Soon many millions refused the nights gravity and wind, reaching silently with their own illusions towards the brutal personality. Over border and water flows, stirring anything alive to shuttle discerning nerves against a tromping vestgage as its own inherent kind.