Fly On A Windshield

	There's something solid forming in the air
	And the wall of death is lowere in Times Square
	No-one seems to care
	They carry on as if nothing was there
	The wind is blowing harder now
	Blowing dust into my eyes
	The dust settles on my skin
	Making a crust I cannot move
	And I'm hovering like a fly, waiting for the winshield on the freeway