I am made of the lonely feeling of seeing lights in the distance, standing in the snow in the middle of the night. I am made of the sound of rain on your window as the cold autumn wind seeps through the cracks, chilling your skin. I am made of the silence between the snowflakes. I am made of the endless potentials in the rainbow of skeins in the yarn aisle. I am made of the shimmering motes in the shafts of setting sun light pouring golden through the windows of an empty church on a Tuesday evening. I am made of the scent of strong coffee, the weak waft of menthol cigarettes and a flowery scent that reminds you of your childhood. I am made of the hollow nostalgia one feels as you pass a boarded up old gas station, the only building for miles around, on what was once a busy stretch of highway. I am made of the sound of the wind in the corn. I am made of dappled light on green leaves, swaying over drying creek beds. I am made of forgotten cobble bricks under asphalt in your historic downtown alleyways, sporting moss and dandelions. I am made of faded ribbons tied to fence posts. I am made of the icy pinpricks of stars on a clear moonless night, shining distant and sharp as knives. I am made of the warmth of a cat sleeping peacefully in the sun. I am made of the creaking of floorboards in the abandoned mill you aren't supposed to be in, and the hammering of your heart as you open another door. I am made of the restlessness of youth, sitting on the shingles outside the attic window, wanting to go but not knowing where. I am made of broken clocks, for whom time stands still, but cannot deny the cycle of light and dark outside the window. I am made of shattered glass on the side of the road. I am made of forgotten flowers beds, over flowing here, withered to rattling stalks there, all full of grass and weeds. I am made of echos along dry canyon walls. I am made of  empty sense of accomplishment that video game achievements bring. I am made of collected bits, that I swear I have a use for, eventually, maybe, one day. I am made of book half-read. I am made of shaky hands writing shaky words, begging to be understood.