Theres 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 Im hovering like a fly, Waiting for the windshield on the freeway.
The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway. "Fly on a Windshield". GENESIS
Vuelvo a Genesis.