Since coming to Goodmews, she had read about moonflowers and that they blossomed at dusk, softly glowing and exuding their sweet scent.

Moondials tell time using the light of the moon, in the same way sundials work by the light of the sun.
Sundials, however, are far more precise. Moondials are only accurate once a month.

In the library’s glass case, there is one of the few surviving ‘moon sticks’ used by the local Sioux to measure time. According to (Miss or Mrs.) B. Lawon, with the rising of each new moon the Sioux would make a notch in their sticks. They would note the changing of the seasons, and learned they would come again.

She smiled at the thought that the street maps, always with Goodmews’s landmark, the church,
were still dotted around town on the orangewood notice boards stuck into patches of grass.

At Goodmews Post Office, Sam scanned the envelope he’d slid out of his private box.
In the left corner was a recognizable logo – a blue sphere, with a futuristic red wing slicing through it, and NASA in white letters across the middle.

         ‘There’s your cottage.’ Banno walked over and peered out, towards the back. ‘A classic old Fireman’s Cottage – second from the left. Number 2.’ A white, wooden bungalow

Colour could be beautiful anywhere – an azalea-flowered golf course, a blue-surfaced tennis court, the blue water of a swimming pool, the smooth black of a newly tarred road.

He’d strolled slowly across roads, taking advantage of the town’s extended pedestrian-crossing times…

He cut through it, halving it, revealing the glisten inside, then chewed the sweet juice of the sections he’d sliced and raised his plate for the sip. The few seeds were all that had lessened the perfection. People argue about which are the best novels, he thought. I’d like to know where to get the best navels.

He settled in at his desk, his dictionary to hand, thinking, Where would I be without it? Gavelling to a start his proofreading day, he rapped the rubbish-bin rim with his pencil sharpener, emptying yesterday’s remaining blue shavings. Then, with poised blue pencil, and ruler under the words, he whisperedly, expertly, read...

From his desk, Tris could see that the grey had given way to pillow-white billows and some nearly spring sun. A gossamer of spider web – his wind gauge – bobbed around on the outside of his window. He could hear chirping singing thingies cheering the blue – sweet peppering the air with their squawks.

... he was addicted to his game – to the roll and clatter of the dice; to the recording of the totals. He’d wondered if it was like other addictions, that were within arm’s reach and so predictably pleasurable that they were almost impossible to resist…