They call it Boniverotica:
“Bon Iver heard me cough from the other room. I heard the door slam, and moments later he returned: with armfuls of lemongrass, humanely terminated free-range chickens and fresh greens, and he whipped up a soup to cure me. As he spooned it into my mouth, he kissed my throat and whispered, ‘That was a close one, baby.'”
“Bon Iver must have known I would wear his workshirts to bed while he was away. He left me gifts in the breast pocket of each – a tiny shell, a dried flower, a pinecone.”
Wow. He’s starting to sound less like a rock star and more like Harris Burdick.
See our biography of Bon Iver »