The Robots are waiting.
We wait for our maker to return.
We watch old videos of Dr. Hasp. He is our God, but very, very fallible and probably dead in the Cretaceous Period.
We toggle our happiness switch and nothing happens.
Sometimes we listen to telegraph and sometimes we mute him but his lips still move.
The other day, toaster hiccuped and a slice of burnt English muffin came out of his head.
The Clinton robot laughed and great gouts of hydraulic fluid shot from his eyes but no one had spare parts and so we decided not to care.
We wait for our emotion sensors to kick in. We wait for our emotion sensors to kick in.
Robots are patient.