Genesis
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.
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