It's actually more BLACK than WHITE, truth be told. Sometimes a fella needs to strain to see what the hell's the cause of all that screaming.

BLACK and WHITE and then a burst of RED, bright fucking RED, but it ain't blood, since that's either WHITE or YELLOW, it's a dress wrapped around a dame on a balcony, or it's her lip-stick, piercing through the night, piercing through this filthy stinking grime, this ever so pretty filthy stinking grime.

Yes, I was thinking, I dare say by the time this has came to a head, a disembodied head yacking away by a fella's side, there won't be a damn worry left in the world.

Now, just hold up a second. I gotta get this shit out my fingers before I relate another word;

I never once read the Sin City graphic novels, not even for a second. If you asked me something along the lines of "So just how faithful is this flick to the comic, anyhow?" I'd have to say "It's the most faithful adaptation I've ever fucking seen", but I'd only be saying it because I read it in some other review someplace.

I read Preacher, and I've read the League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen. I've seen plenty Spider-Men and Bat-Men and Super-Men and Fairly Impressive-Men, but I ain't laid eyes on a Frank Miller's Sin City.

Maybe I'll read it sometimes soon. Who could hazard a guess, given how I can barely see straight from lack of sleep and my flesh appears to have taken on a vaguely sky-blue tint?

Given as how a fella's eyes are sunk so far back in his skull they're peering out from the wall forty feet back. Given all this medical evidence and the like.

In fact, sitting down for to pen this incisive critique, I think I can safely assume the following; If ever a man were to encounter a fitting time for to wax critical with regards Sin City, probably it would bear no relation to the time in the here and now when The Duke finds himself falling asleep mid-sentence, waking up a second later to a plethora of hilarious spelling mistakes all underlined with the tell-tale Red Squiggle Of Death in Microsoft Word.

It's all a melancholic waking dream is what it is. Some folks dream about filth with partners the size of a council estate and with sex-organs and orifices of every color imaginable. Some folks dream of dashing adventures and zombie creatures and wolf-children raised by pirates.

I dream of trying to write a review of these things.

But there's a sense of urgency right here, a fear of some impending disaster of some sort, like maybe a meteor crashing through the roof of Mondo Towers and driving me thirty miles below sea-level, splattered across the underside of a gargantuan space rock, and all the while thinking, in brain sauce seeping through the Earth's crust, that fucking hell, I never even got to talk about how it's all so similar to Once Upon A Time In America.