How would you describe the sensation of waking up in the morning, badly hung over?
Oh, shut up. I don't care how you would describe it. It was a rhetorical question. I'm more interested in how Kingsley Amis described it, in the novel Lucky Jim;
"Dixon was alive again. Consciousness was upon him before he could get out of the way; not for him the slow, gracious wandering from the halls of sleep, but a summary, forcible ejection. He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of the morning. The light did him harm, but not as much as looking at things did; he resolved, having done it once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he'd somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad."
What I find interesting here is the way the author repeatedly changes strategy in the course of just one paragraph. He starts out "literary", playing with metaphors (the touches of humor here are the only things separating it from the worst excesses of wannabe "artistic" writers), which culminates in an awkward, perplexing image involving a crab. The next couple sentences give a mostly straightforward description of what the character is feeling. Then, the comic aspects of the situation, which had been hinted at for most of the paragraph, are given center stage, with excellent result. Finally, the paragraph ends with an understatement so anticlimactic as to be truly stunning.