Ever since I was four, maybe five, I’ve been obsessed with Batman. Through all the iterations, from the, in retrospect, perverse incongruence of the 1960’s “na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na-NAH-Batman!!!” to the gritty and neo-noir forays into the urban abyss courtesy of masters Neal Adams and Denny O’Neil, to the no-prisoners-taken Grand Guignol tableaux of Frank Miller and Brian Bolland in the 80’s, and later, the burning citadels of Gotham’s decline, as seen by Messrs. Loeb, Sale, Miller (again), Mazzucchelli, Rucka, Maleev, et al–I have always been waiting for the signal, the faint spectre of a winged creature against moonlit clouds, peering through the keyhole in a tenement flat, a nameless pair of eyes behind the door of a childhood alleyway that stretches from the cradle to the grave.
So, now and again, I draw him, to remind me of what’s real.
The World’s Greatest Detective.
Grafictional 
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Wow, this piece of writing is good, my younger sister is analyzing these kinds of things, therefore
I am going to convey her.