I once heard a story from a homeless man. He was raw with life and seemed believable. He said once a year fallen angels are forced to have their wings clipped or otherwise lose their immortality. Most of those who remember choose the operation on their wings. They all line up outside the surgery, some glugging bottles of whisky, others with prostitutes in tow to comfort them while their wings are cut to stubs. For miles you can hear the screams.
"I thought they could tell me what heaven is like," the homeless man said. "But none of them could remember."