The other day I found myself in an unfamiliar Brooklyn apartment — a stranger dressed all in white stroking my ear with a Q-tip. That’s not something that happens every day.
When I moved to the next room, another stranger swept a makeup brush against my arm and whispered a story from her childhood. Later, I drew with charcoal on a large artist’s pad with a third stranger as we listened together to the sound’s varying tenors.
No, I wasn’t abducted by a cult. I had been swept into a phenomenon called autonomous sensory meridian r…
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