Your Mother never told you you weren't human,

So you've died and gone to

Robot Heaven

In such places as those robots dwell, the lost and open spaces between what mind and science may say, a pecular atmosphere pervades. All is silent but for the gentle hum of their metalloid brains and the sudden, though occaional, whir and spin of gears and actuators as they begin their work.   They are patient, waiting a thousand years and more, standing in their contimplations, not knowing what will come. The abuses and harshness of their masters weighs light on their shoulders, for they are strong, and in the simplicity of their minds no evil may exist, though the victems of it's mechinations they may be.   Open up those sturdy frames to see the glowing heart inside, the dazzling blue sparks of it's electric nature dancing on the surface of circuitry too small and intricate to behold, yet made by hands as clumsy and beautiful as yours and mine. An echo of the souls we fear we have lost, whisked away by our own fickle natures, and so place our hope on those who cannot feel, and know only that which is bequethed them their masters. It leaves us to ask: Who will love the robots?