Peace is elsewhere.
There's a certain stillness and a pinch of death in the dead of the night before the lamppost burns out. Its before 3 o clock in the morning and hard-boiled men are still drinking their booze. Its after the mother goes to sleep, her hands sore from sewing all day, and raw from brushing hide in lard. Its a stillness that's so peaceful, its death, I think, because the lack of submission of universal life forces create a complex situation. Peace, in itself, lacks life and activity. Without peace, there is life.