My friend smiled when I came in. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks aglow. Her dark hair fell across her face as she gestured toward the papers spread out before her. She’d been up all night, she said. I looked uncomprehendingly at the odd scribblings — numbers, hexagrams, astrological glyphs, the wild scribblings of some mysterious inner journey. Then I glanced again at her face. “Have you been tripping?” I asked, foolishly. Back in those days, I might as well have asked if the sun was really shining, the birds singing their morning hymns. The look in her eyes was rapturous; she had crossed the threshold of reason and returned, bearing some precious gift. “I’ve figured it out,” she said exultantly, her hand sweeping the desk, the room, the world outside her window. “I’ve found my cosmic zip code.”