Fly On a Windshield

There's something solid forming in the air,
And the wall of death is lowered in Times Square.
No one seems to care,
They carry on as if nothing's 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.