Sometimes, lying propped up against the half-opened window, a great calm would come over him listening to the distant songs of madmen moaning in the streets below. He could never make out the exact words but melody lines would weave together; weave in and out of other sounds like faraway sirens, trains, TVs from other open windows, babbling news. There was some peace in the distance, in the listening, in the longing wails impossible to be answered. Peace of a kind that had no ambition, no plan, no political motive. Peace for its own sake.
~ from Day out of Days by Sam Shepard
