Who the hell does this by choice? Why?
I am being a drug puppet. The strings are owned by the hydromorphone. Given that the alternative is pain sufficiently intense to be more disruptive than the drugs themselves, I'll take the bargain, but it is an uneasy one at best. This stuff robs me of my intellect, of my focus, of my capacity to be multithreaded, of my ability to write or even read.
Once I am back in the fiction saddle, there is going to be some serious whoop-ass opened up. Meanwhile, being a tourist in the land of the slow, I am at least enjoying the dream fog.
Except when I am not, of course.