It's funky when you let someone get a piece of your soul. I can feel her
worrying it over there, like a dog with a rag. Poking it with pins like a
voodoo doll. Dissecting it like a frog. Its pinned flayed skin arrayed in
a bold green mandala.

Her piece of me gathers dust in a box in a dark closet. Be sure to turn
out the mind. The mighty mindlight. The Mighty Mindscope. She does that,
though — puts things in boxes and leaves them there forever. Had I not
crowbarred her out of that garage of hers, she'd be there now, with whole
areas out of bounds as a haven for spiders and ancient dogpiss crust and
whatnot.

I could move her out of the old surroundings, but not out of her old
mind.