Some fabrics are too beautiful for mundane hands. It feels almost a crime that you, a mere mortal, should be allowed to hold such a material. To craft it into clothing is an act so sacred, that priests should be set up solely to handle this fabric.
At least that’s what some tailors believe.
Infinity cloth is so garish, so incoherently vibrant, that it induces a strange sort of psychosis into those who use it. They do not see the vulgar brightness of the colours, nor the incomprehensible combinations that would be a fashion crime in any other world. Instead, they see only shimmering colours and a sparkling iridescence that reaches somewhere inside of them and murders their sense of taste.
Infinity cloth is a beautiful blasphemy, handle with care.