Format the following passage properly, for storytelling purposes. Don't change a word, keep it as written, but improve grammar where necessary.

The sun has reached an exceptional level of brightness. It is easily the most luminescent it has been all day, and what better time than the present to do some writing today? With that, I sit down and go into a reflective state. I woke up shortly before 5:00am, having gone to bed slightly earlier than I normally do. Light slivers were peeking through my doorway an hour earlier, the grunts of a certain house-mate--along with the cryptic communications of his sister--serving as a makeshift alarm clock. Believe it or not it took roughly ten minutes to write the previous sentence, not because of writer's block but due to having received a phone call from a young woman who has become a regular at the day program. She is a year older than me, but seems to be much more childish in her temperament. She has a nervous energy about her, and is trying to make a big deal about a birthday that I honestly could not care less about. Supposedly, she will be turning 33 in August. While I appreciate her interest in having me there, I'm not on board with the idea of becoming her 'messenger'. She has already tried to get me to convey a message to someone who she could just as easily speak to herself. I'm a little bit irritated, but entertain her interest. She asks me who I would want to invite. I say "everyone in the Joshua House"--a natural answer that most people in my situation would likely give. She mentions some particular names, to which I respond with variations of 'yes, of course; why wouldn't I want them to be there?' or 'why wouldn't I invite them?' Eventually, I've had enough of it when she starts going into dress code (seriously, I barely know you and now you're going to tell me what sort of clothes I should wear to your party?), and explain to her with as much politeness as I can possibly muster that I am busy with my writing. She seems understanding and we end the call shortly thereafter. Initially, I block her number, but it seems a bit extreme and so I quickly unblock it. I text her a few minutes later, to communicate my thoughts more precisely. I am not sure how well the words will resonate with her, and I don't expect them to be fully understood. As she is also in the after-work drama class, I will be in perilously close proximity to her on Tuesdays. Hopefully, there will be no tension in that regard. I'm sure she'll call again, maybe sometime tonight, maybe during the weekend, maybe sometime next week. Suddenly, I remember that I had received an email last night from Sonja Ball that touched my heart very much. It brings me back to my compassionate side. I pour out my heart gently and get a call shortly afterwards. As of right now, we're still on the phone. I've helped spell out a few names for her, after politely explaining that I've only been here for a month and don't know everyone yet. Of course, I would want everyone to be at the party. Using a random name generator, I try to help my friend, who wonders out loud who else she is missing from her list of people to send out invitations to. I manage to jog her memory by complete luck on several occasions; on others, she doesn't know who I am referring to. She is giving special emphasis to the folks who live and/or work in the apartments and I'm drawing a complete mental blank on all the people she's mentioning. Even so, I help her spell out their names, and it's as though I've been teleported twenty years into the past to a spelling bee where I flamed out in the semifinals on 'construction' (accidentally using a K instead of another C). "If I had only gotten a little more sleep," I tell myself. But it's okay. I've still come a long way. It seems like things will be fine. She tells me about someone else in the same drama class, who is a housemate of hers in her own group home; this housemate recently inherited the room of a now-deceased resident. I cannot be too hard on her; obviously, she's got her own unique challenges to deal with in life. She has experienced death in much the same way I have, losing someone who was close to her and old enough to be a parent (or even grandparent). She's also felt some pain in her left shoulder after needing to have blood work done. There's probably a lot more about her that I still don't know. Maybe talking to me, and others, is a way for her to cope, just as my writing helps me cope with all of the problems on my mind. I have to say goodbye, as I hear a house-mate calling out to me that dinner has been served. I sit down to chicken, mixed vegetables, and potatoes, enjoying all with a cup of water. I am quiet and reserved while I eat, my thoughts shifting as grains of sand between different topics. I reflect on this morning, on the happiness I felt when I read Sonja's words. She's so special to me, though we have not yet met. I could not even start writing this morning, for my heart was aflutter with joy that is nearly indescribable. I don't shame myself for being negligent, or 'lazy'. Shame has never been a good motivator. I re-frame it as having given myself the briefest of needed breaks. There is a time and place for everything; after all, I'm no stranger to writing after work. I reflect on my anticipation of a certain coworker waiting for me in the break room, of being there for him and entertaining him with videos. Surprisingly, he was not there. Someone suggests that he is out due to bad behavior, and will return on Monday. The assistant manager shoots down the idea and tries to find out who originated the rumor. Eventually, I do see this coworker, near the end of our snack break (which I've essentially been turning into full-fledged lunch breaks; as the snack break is followed by two straight hours of work, and there is not as much work to do after the lunch break has ended, I try to eat all my food during the snack break so I have enough energy for those two hours, and I just drink water during the actual lunch break, unless someone is kind enough to give me something else to eat). His father came to pick him up yesterday, shortly before our shift was over, to spend a little quality time with his son. He sees me finishing my food, and comes up to me. We hug. His father shows me some pictures of the activities he enjoyed with his son yesterday. I can't help but smile, as if I were the father. I feel the same sort of pride. I assure my friend that we'll watch videos during the lunch break. First, we label about 150 lids for "Meals on Wheels" containers. I start out by doing it myself; he soon offers to help, and we're able to get more done together. It feels like we will have a good lunch break together, until he accidentally breaks a bottle of extra virgin olive oil due to his habit of moving things around. I feel bad for him. He wants to be helpful. He looks around and he tries to give himself tasks. His heart is in the right place, but his mental state is similar to that of a child. His supervisors scold him. I gently offer encouragement but must also be honest with him. I'm not sure how much of it is registering in his mind. He's been this way since I first met him, and I don't know if it will ever change. Maybe it doesn't need to. I like being there for him. He's a bit of an outcast among the workers precisely because his mind is so childlike, so vulnerable. If I can be his one unconditional friend, it's a pleasure and an honor. As I sit here, I tear up and think of him. What will Monday hold? Will we all still be here? I hope he will be okay. I hope we will all be.