This city has too many angels, wandering around with their wings chopped off, missions written by drunks in crayon on the backs of receipts because God thought it would be funnier that way.  They remember the warm day in January when the snow melted away.  They wore shorts and plunged into the icy lake because they wanted to remember and they wanted it to count.  One of them almost drowned, and they all have too many regrets and not enough money, and sometimes, they are more beautiful than anyone could ever imagine, and sometimes, they remember they don’t have wings, and then their feet ache at just the thought of walking around, forehead to the ground, like everyone else, forever.