Pine, now, for Havarti, the city of my birth, the city that now sleeps forever under the dust of a million years. Weep, now, for Havarti, the latest victim of a plague that threatens the very universe. Mourn, now, for Havarti, the lost, the city that is, and once was, and will never have been. For its very existence has been eaten by time roaches.
No more will its gay plaid flag wave over the hog-soaked streets. No more will the city elders take potshots at passersby, flinging deadly pastries into the street from the safety of His Majesty's House O'Justice. The merry frivolity that every citizen of Havarti had as his birthright is gone, and even the city's name will soon vanish, to exist only as a ghostly echo in some other world, perhaps as the name of a cheese.
The earth where my city might once have otherwise been, had it ever existed, is bare. And I don't feel too well myself. The recent million-year-old tragedy has left me remembering a childhood I never had, looking forward to a future that has already happened, forgetting things that I never knew. My birthday is rapidly approaching me from behind. I seem to have less time left than I thought, and I am glad I decided not to bother writing this, except that I hear the time roaches approaching yesterday and I hadn't known and I'm going to have been