She sits there, confused, because words are her blood and numbers are not her beat.
She sits there crying inside, because she feels stupid and betrayed for not knowing the magic formula, for not knowing how the ten strange symbols clicked and interlocked.
She sits there bewildered at how these numbers interact so skillfully and yet so harshly. There is no room for imagination or fault. But there is no perfection in writing.
She sits there.
She writes.
And the numbers can march but her words, her emotion; they dance and interlock in ways that can't be printed without feeling, without though, or converted to something yet retain meaning. And she knows, even if she cannot understand the march of numbers, that she has mastered the higher art.