Time Doesn't Go Backwards

Five minutes to go.

What will you write? asks Terence. 

First I'll re-read what Sweezus wrote, says Sartre.

And then what? asks Terence.

Change it if necessary, says Sartre.

He would write good things, says Terence.

Good things they may be, says Sartre, but untruthful.

What's untruthful? asks Terence.

Fanciful, says Sartre. For example I didn't go to buy glue on my bike.

You could easily change it, says Terence. 

But I'm required to provide bicycle content, says Sartre.

Say you didn't go to buy glue on your bike, says Terence.

But why would I bother to say that? asks Sartre.

Because, says Terence, you have to. What else was too fancy?

That I bought the most expensive glue, says Sartre.

Change it to gluiest, says Terence.

I bought the gluiest glue?  says Sartre. 

That's true, says Terence. Look at me, stuck to a hat pin.

Three minutes to go.

Sartre tries to remember what else Sweezus wrote.

The assistant asked too many questions. And he, Sartre, gave him too many answers. Resulting in the assistant concluding they had rescued a child. And he, Sartre, to escape further scrutiny, rode away fast on his bicycle. The one he didn't go to buy glue on! 

It's true, there will need to be changes.

One minute to go.

One minute to go, says Sartre.

Shall I count it? asks Terence.

One? says Sartre.

I can easily do it, says Terence.

Anyone could do it, says Sartre. Try counting down the seconds.

One.... two....three, says Terence.

Not like that, says Sartre. Start from sixty and count backwards. No, wait, not sixty, some seconds have already elapsed. Start from forty.

Forty, says Terence. Forty one.

Backwards, says Sartre.

That's impossible, says Terence. Time doesn't go backwards.

It isn't going backwards as such, says Sartre.

I know that, says Terence. Forty two.

In fact, there are now twenty seconds remaining.

Sartre counts them down in his head by himself.

...three...two...one. Yes. The drying time is finally over.

He tries to let go of the clasp. 

Terence is watching.

But Sartre is having a bit of a problem.