‘Do you think you might come out today?’ I ask. I reach for the curtains and pull them open to show Bon Iver that the day outside is brilliant.
He removes his headphones and squints into the light pouring through the window, illuminating millions of dust particles. He shakes his head.
I take some sandwich dishes and begin to retreat, but he captures my by the wrist.
‘Baby,’ he says, and his voice is broken but warm. ‘I know it’s hard for you when I have to stay in here, but I have to stay until I’ve written a song that’s worthy of the light that warms the earth out there, that’s worthy of the lighted earth that you walk on, my angel.’
And he picks up his kazoo and honks a tune that I think, privately, may not yet be worthy of the sun and earth.