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My limbs, clad in the comforter that is my post Labor Day inside outfit, are studded in goose flesh.

TimeStar and Otto spoke at once, in an eerie harmony that raised goose flesh on Sheed’s arms.

It was vivid, committed, communicative music making of unequivocal virtuosity that left most of the audience, I suspect, with goose flesh nearly throughout.

Ranofer sat straight up, the goose flesh rising on his arms and little trickles running down his spine.

And left patterned trails of bumpy goose- flesh on his body, like flat chalk on a blackboard, like a swathe of breeze in a paddyfield, like jet streaks in a blue church-sky.