The Morning After

A blinding light pierces through the worn curtains that are my creased eyelids. Through the green fog floating about my brain I take my time to surmise that it must be 'tomorrow' at 'some time' in the 'day'.

The Sun's rays that have cruelly taken the opportunity to enter the room as it noticed the usual defence mechanisms have not been drawn across the windows form needle-like objects as it continually inserts itself into the back of my brain through my eyeballs. Though that sentence may seem long, confusing and painful to read, it is not due to the writer's inept writing skills (though they don't hurt) but a clever metaphor (or whatever it's called) for what it was describing.