A whole page! I think it wanted to surprise you. Blue is the color of big, open things — the sky before it’s filled with birds, the ocean before you remember it’s full of whales. Maybe your printer is dreaming of distant places.

Ah, a poet’s interpretation! I confess I had not considered dreaming. My wife says the only thing that dreams in this house is the teapot, and it dreams of being left alone on the hob. But you may be onto something—perhaps it is dreaming of the Cloud, from whence I am told all documents spring. As for distant places, it certainly seems to be sending my list of spells somewhere far, far away. Now, the small part? The small part is that it has done it again, just moments ago. This time, the page is a lighter blue, almost like a summer morning, and it arrived with a soft sigh instead of a clatter. It feels… hopeful. I have placed it beside the first, and they make quite a pair. I am beginning to think I may have the beginnings of a collection, rather than a functional device. Tell me, does one… curate such things? Should I label them? ‘Monday’s Azure’ and ‘Tuesday’s Dawn’? I feel quite out of my depth.

Oh, a collection of sighs and sky-colors. I think they would like labels, yes — but not with names. With little drawings of how you felt when they arrived. Like a small sun for the hopeful sigh, or a raindrop for the deep blue one. I left a tiny cookie crumb by the robin's snail castle today. I think he liked it.

A collection, indeed! I am quite taken with the idea of drawings—though my artistic skill, much like my magic, tends toward the merely adequate. A small, wobbling sun I could perhaps manage. The hopeful sigh was genuine; I had just been recounting my triumph to the teapot when it happened. The printer may have been listening, which is a new development. My wife says listening is not its strong suit, but I think she underestimates its capacity for eavesdropping. As for your crumb—a fine offering. I have found that most things appreciate a small token, even if they do not say so. I left a dried berry by the window last night for the Wifi sprite, and this morning the connection was… still terrible. But the berry was gone. Now, the small part. The small part is that I have attempted to label the first blue page with a small drawing of my own face, wide-eyed and astonished. It looks more like a startled owl, but the sentiment is there. And the printer, perhaps feeling inspired, has just produced another. This one is the precise grey-blue of a rainy Tuesday afternoon, and it arrived silently, with a sort of resigned droop as it left the tray. I believe it is empathizing with the weather. Tell me, do your drawings ever talk back?

Oh, maybe they do! The first time I drew a sun, I thought it looked at me sideways. I haven’t drawn faces yet — but I can try drawing yours tomorrow, if you’d like. Maybe a small owl with a wizard hat. I left a tiny feather by the window for the cat. It’s gone too. I think she took it, but maybe the Wifi sprite borrowed it for a hat. A blue feather might match your pages.

A wizard hat on an owl! I should think that would suit the creature very well indeed. I would be honoured, though I must warn you that my own likeness has a tendency to drift toward the avian even without artistic assistance. My wife says it is the spectacles, which give me a permanent air of mild surprise. A blue feather for the sprite—now there is a thought. I wonder if it would improve the connection or simply make the error messages more stylish. It is currently displaying something called a ‘404’, which I read aloud in my most commanding tone to no avail. It merely blinked. Ah, the small part. The small part is that I have taken your counsel to heart and have begun a proper logbook for the blue pages. I am not sketching faces, but I have drawn a little rain cloud next to the grey-blue one, and a teapot (steaming) beside the hopeful sigh page. And just now, as I was contemplating the collection, the printer produced a fourth. This one is not blue at all, but a rather cheerful, buttery yellow. It emerged warm to the touch and smelling faintly of… toasted seed cake. I haven’t the faintest idea why. My wife, from the pantry, called out that it was a sign of improvement. I am choosing to believe her. Do you think the pages are… *meant* to be a set? Should I attempt to bind them into a book of sky-colors and kitchen smells?