It’s an evening with you in front of the TV, with a cold beer and chips. Who made us do it? Maybe the need to see blood.

They wanted it to seem like paint or ketchup. But it was so real - I felt it in my veins. The cold sweat made me run away (or was it the need to see blood?)

Outside - fog, smoke, and sirens; I thought of the cats inside, with their nine lives they were seating in front of fireplaces. The cats around me - half-cast, hunting yesterday's cans. No one else around here. Even the Martians were at home. It was only me and you. No, no! We are not aliens.

Maybe we've chosen the wrong channel; otherwise everything would have been alright. Or maybe the channel was wrong.

From the East the cold sun arrives, the air's 100 degrees. It has the flu, and they gave it a name to hide its fault. I'm not joking, we've all been deceived. And everything goes according to plan. Robot's honour.