Satin, you're pedantic. Get off it.

Pedantry is like sheets of satin.
Linens would do -- they're rather lovely, really -- but would I deny satin?
Certainly not: its touch is luxurious -- rich -- opulent.
I can't help but take a corner and rub it against my cheek.
Isn't this nice I think.
Why yes; it's smooth and pure and its gloss beams.
I could sleep -- and have slept -- soundly under these sheets.
But I have tired of them.
Their feel sickens me;
I've half a mind to shred them into long, spindly strips and hang them from the ceiling.
That would be artistic.
I'd be bare naked.
The draft from the window would chill my skin.
Goose pimples would break out all over.
It'd take a few minutes to get comfortable, but the swampy cool air would feel refreshing.
I'd make mattress angels, my arms pumping and my legs kicking.
Can you see them, made over and over again, the first one better than the last?