As I restored myself, cellularly and emotionally, in the wake of deep grief, the act of writing not only became therapeutic, it pumped a kind of spiritual oxygen into my lungs. I wrote to make sense of things, to answer questions that haunted me, to keep my heart awake to the possibility of new life. And amid it all, writing to each other daily, my friend Janson and I discovered the magic of something we called “Infinite Selves: A Memoir of Singularity in Plurality,” or IS:AMOSIP for short.IS:AMOSIP was (and still is) a rotating roster of stories that capture the core human struggles we both—we all—experience. The heartbreak, the loss, the longing, the absurd and hilarious difficulty of just being human. Somehow, knowing that my suffering was understood by this one other human—whose life was externally so different from mine, yet whose heart was so close to mine—provided the levity and verve I needed to keep writing my own story, a new story. A new memoir of singularity in plurality.And so this flatbread was born, a memoir in food form, created by Janson and me the summer when I moved to Los Angeles. Wh …