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I love my jersey sheets. It's like sleeping in your favourite t-shirt, but all over. It's true that they pill a bit, but it really hasn't been much at all, at least not on mine. I own three pairs of jersey sheets; I can't sleep on anything else.
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The word "time" split its husk; poured its riches over him; and from his lips fell like shells, like shavings from a plane, without his making them, hard, white, imperishable words, and flew to attach themselves to their places in an ode to Time; an immortal ode to Time.
—Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway
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