People are always asking me if I know Tyler Durden.

Of course I do. I am Tyler Durden.

At least, I was.

Welcome to the Wynarski Hospital for the Mentally Unstable. A top-security prison where they keep all those psychos you read about in the paper while drinking your grande latte drugged up and off the streets, so you can all go about living your happy little lives without having to worry about some poor fucker who's fed up with his quest for clear skin and perfect teeth to come running down the street with a semi automatic rifle, mowing down rows of Calvin Klein clad automatons when he snaps.

Or from triggering a nation wide underground anarchist revolution and turning half of a major city into a pile of nice neat little flaming shit.

I've sat here for seven months stored neatly away in this filing cabinet for the insane, living the old single serving life. Seven months. Twenty eight weeks. One hundred ninety six days. Four thousand seven hundred and four hours. This is my life, and it's going nowhere fast.

Funny how things come full circle, isn't it?

The doctors, and I use that term loosely, think that if they keep me drugged up on enough of their medication, it will keep Tyler from rearing his ugly head again. Maybe they're right.

But probably not.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. Tyler's dead, right?

No, Tyler is not dead. How could he die? He's not a physical human being the way you and I are. The rules don't apply to him. At least in my mind, where Tyler lived. No, Tyler won't be dead until I myself am six feet under, food for the worms. I don't know where I got the idea that shooting myself in the mouth would kill him. But hey, I'm insane, remember?

I haven't seen Tyler since I "killed him" seven months ago. But I know he's there. I can feel him. Like that tingling sensation you get in the back of your brain when you hear your favorite song come on the radio, I could still feel Tyler, laying low in my subconscious. Waiting for the right moment to show up and rescue me. Rescue me from this padded cell. Rescue me from overpaid, know-nothing psychologists. Rescue me from white clad orderlies that get a kick out of pushing us around. Rescue me from solitary confinement. Rescue me from plastic utensils and styrofoam food trays, rescue me from the same goddamned gruel they feed me every day. Rescue me, Tyler. Rescue me.