Fly on a Windshield

There's something solid forming in the air,

The wall of death is lowered 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 in

And I'm hovering like a fly, waiting for the windshield on the freeway.