Radio.

Radio. That was it; a radio. There was a radio in my head; the static so rough and loud, irritating the membranes of whatever brain cells I had left at the moment. I could have coped with it if it was music I was hearing, but the constant meaningless noise wore at my nerves like sandpaper. Have you ever been so angry at a thing that you want to destroy it? I have. I hated static, I hated the idea of static, I wanted the static to end.
But it persisted anyway--the volume even turned up and garbled outside voices. Snow buzzed in my vision, like a broken monitor had been stuck in the space behind my eyes and left with the power on, operating but not working. Blocking out sight, sound, movement, anything--there was the static and there was me and that was all. If the two of us occupied an entire universe on our own, it couldn't be measured or proven. We may have been in a world full of matter or consciousness; trillions of other lifeforms living all around...I couldn't tell. You could almost feel the brush of their little bodies against you sometimes; a moment later you'd find that you've gone numb and there's no way for you to feel anything.
The radiowaves changed in tone, sliding from higher to lower pitch as if someone was tuning it. Finally, all the backround noise coalesced into a few syllables, then a word, then a voice.
After contemplating the complete and utter fallibility of his life thus far, Olo Lamna, commonly known as Olo "Doorbell" Lamna, decided it was in the best interest of those around him to off himself. He hadn't accomplished much in his life yet, and with things the way they were it was highly unlikely he would ever do so.
The voice, so rough and jagged, narrating my thoughts along with lies. But were they lies, or were they things that were going to happen? Time was absent here along with the senses; the future blended into the past into the present into what would never happen. Was this voice a product of my own thoughts or another thing entirely?
In the course of his travels into the bowels of his own mind, he had uncovered a simple truth; even if things were not real to begin with it was still possible for them to impact three-dimensional corporeal beings, existing in an environment called space and time.
Well, that was true...ideas did more damage then blows or bullets. A cut or a broken bone would heal in time, naturally. An injury to the mind would take far more to go away. It may never go away--that was why we all had to be careful while fighting for or freedom. What if, in the process, we become slaves to our own actions and thirst for revenge? Then we'll have lost.
The incorporeal and corporeal fed off of each other every day, waxing and waning in unison to achieve equilibrium. Following this train of thought, Olo came to the conclusion that destroying the ideas of MNU would not be enough; the employees would carry the concepts away to re-create the company.
We couldn't kill, though. That would make us no better then them...would it? Was it okay to kill those who have killed innocents? The scars that action would leave are unimaginable. They'd never leave, so that meant--
His beliefs had been wrong all this time; he had assumed that things were better then they actually were. Ideas never die, but they could kill, quite easily in fact.
That was it. I wanted to walk away from this voice, but where would I run to? Nevermind that my legs were somewhere out of reach...I couldn't run away. It had taken root in my brain, digging into the tissue and sparks of thoughts like a tapeworm, seeking the warmth and spinning out accounts of my actions, my wrongdoings, what I failed to do and what I failed at doing. Little offspring, little mini-worms to repeat the process. Would they chew their way out of me to infect others, or would I just carry them along inside until they ate up everything and left a shell? A shell...that was interesting...an organic puppet to hide their lithe bodies from the world. Could they actually do this--would they do it? There was no way I could know, no way I could ever know.