Desolation Row (FRERARD)

I did it for the rush, and nothing more. Or at least that's what I've been telling myself. Maybe I did it because they said I couldn't, maybe I've finally lost my grip on sanity. Whatever the reason, it was in too deep to undo my sins now. It was late, it was dark, and reality had yet to set in. I was still high on adrenaline, the flashing lights and blaring sirens, vivid and intrepid against the dark cover of night. The fire was beautiful, and I stood back to admire my night's work. They were coming for me, coming to take me away. It didn't matter anymore. It was about time, in fact. At least that meant that someone had taken notice to my sorry life and ill decisions, and that was all I truly craved. My parents-or at least whatever was left of them, didn't pay me any heed. I didn't even live with them. One of my only true companions had let me crash with him for the past three months. Honestly, I was dead for all my parents cared. But that didn't matter either, because they didn't care.
The sirens were close now, maybe only mere seconds away. I looked back on my burning mural, the words, "Fake Your Death," blazing brightly against the side of the concrete passway, the scent of gasoline set aflame scorching my nostrils. The words had meaning, maybe not to anyone else, but to me. Those words were the last thing I saw before being shoved roughly into the back of one of the police cars that had come to take me away. My pride was my greatest weakness, and I couldn't help but grin furiously at myself as the police car drove away from the scene. I stared longingly at the words, my last beacon of freedom, my last cry for help, fading into the black. The last light was gone, and this was the turning point.