(Composição: Tony Banks, Phil Collins, Peter Gabriel, Steve Hackett, Mike Rutherford) 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
