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

5:10am. The bigger number is the smaller one, doubled. Are you beginning to notice a pattern here? If so, it is intentional. My own life has become a bit repetitious, but that's what happens when you are living in a controlled environment, where everything is provided for you except the one thing humans truly need: freedom. I say that, of course, at the expense of sounding like an ingrate. However, it's necessary to be honest sometimes. I've striven for honesty from the moment I started writing the book and don't intend to stop now. Though I got to sleep a bit later than may have perhaps been preferable (but with no regrets, as I was writing an email reply to one of my favorite animators, who may hold a speed record now for fastest time getting back to me...although it may not be anything to brag about, since he has been out of steady work since last August), I did manage to get a good and pleasant rest last night. Shortly after 4:00, I caught out of the corner of my eye that the hallway lights were now on. "No big deal," I think to myself. I feel the urge to urinate, but it is not so significant as to deter me from extending my slumber ever so slightly. Eventually, a vulnerable female house-mate, who is still in her thirties but just a year away from turning forty, is aided in the shower by the night shift CNA, a woman of Jamaican descent in her mid-sixties. This would not be a problem in most cases, but I am not so fortunate in this case, as my house-mate has a tendency to verbalize her thoughts and feelings at great length, with varying degrees of success. Her capacity for self-expression seems to be worlds away from mine, and quite a ways away from others in the house; her sentiments come out as little more than near-totally indiscernible stutters, the pitch rapidly fluctuating across multiple octaves, words pouring out with failing form. On the other hand, she has demonstrated the ability to speak in complete sentences, though her range does not extend far beyond "what are you doing today?", "where are we going tomorrow?", or variants thereof. This puts her at somewhat of an advantage when compared to her brother, who has only shown the ability to communicate in grunts and shrieks. It seems that he is becoming somewhat bold lately in terms of his rebellion against the 'system' when he is asked to stay in his seat and finish his food. The staff, who until very recently had been fairly accommodating of his special desire to be spoon-fed, are trying to wean him off of that and make him feed himself. I would suppose it depends on what he is eating on a given night, or perhaps he has an ability to acknowledge when his body is at its limit, and is being forced to continue. When you don't have the ability to clearly express what is on your mind, it can put you into situations you wouldn't ever reasonably ask to be in. It seems virtually unfathomable to me, the idea of being trapped in a body that barely works, with the need to express yourself only for your words to be unable to extend, by no fault of your own, beyond babble...you may as well be speaking a totally different language in comparison to others. Once again, I'm reminded of the uniqueness that makes our world what it is, but also of the cruel decks that some people are dealt from the time they were born. I realize I'm one of the lucky ones, but then again, how far does my luck go? I recall the classic "Book of Questions" by Gregory Stock, Ph.D. Having saved a .pdf copy to my flash drive some time ago, I pull it up and look for a particular question. After about thirty seconds of scrolling, I find it. It is question #198, and reads as follows: "If you could pass your whole life cared for in every way as you slumbered peacefully, entranced by wonderful dreams, would you do so?" In my case, the answer would be 'no'. After nearly two months of living in a group home, I cannot in good faith entertain the concept of willingly trading away my freedom in exchange for being in someone else's care. "Where did it all go wrong?" I ask myself. "Is this what I get for not trying hard enough in my youth? Had I simply put a little more effort into striving for greatness, would I have ended up in a better station than where I am now?" Maybe fate would have landed me here in the end, no matter how far I rose above the life to which I had grown accustomed. Maybe it was not my destiny to rise. Maybe I was meant to be here. Whatever the circumstances are that got me here, I feel I am now in a position to make a difference in the lives of the people around me, to reassure them that they are not mistakes, that they are smart and valuable. They were complete strangers when I first met them. I was a complete stranger to them, and perhaps I still am. I do not consider myself as complicated as some may perceive me to be, and yet I have made myself a mystery, simply by virtue of the amount of time I spend in my room. My fortress of solitude does not see many visitors, aside from the staff who are just doing their jobs. There is a part of me that hopes for a house-mate to visit, but another part that likes being alone. My radio has not yet been unplugged; the computer voice of the National Weather Service continues to communicate a steady stream of information. It is loud enough that I can tune into it at my leisure, but not so loud that it impedes me from concentrating on my writing. In the distance, I hear a stream of water flowing, suggesting that someone is washing their hands. There are no dishes to be washed at the moment, as breakfast has not yet been served. Outside, the sound of what is either a landscaping truck or a garbage truck is audible; what I had interpreted as the latter turned out to be the former earlier this week. I am now where I was perhaps destined to be from my infancy: taking my place among the outcasts of society, the ones who seemingly refuse to fall in line with the way things were meant to be done. I feel a kinship with them, yet selfishly I cannot help but wonder what the future has in store for me. Is it necessary to dream? After all, a man can aim for the highest plateaus of success in this world, only to lose it all...sometimes through no fault of their own, in other cases because their dishonesty has caught up with them. I am convinced that the truck indeed belongs to landscapers once I hear what seems to be a lawnmower reverberating in the distance. I consider the possibility of getting out one day, but also realize the necessity of being careful right now with how I treat those with whom I am in constant contact. There is a reason why the saying "Be kind to everyone on the way up; you'll meet the same people on the way down"--and countless variations thereof--exists. Popularly attributed to Wilson Mizner, who allegedly offered precisely this advice to a young film star of his time, it is just as relevant today as it was more than ninety years ago; the earliest known usages go back to 1932. However long I am here, I would like to be remembered as someone who did his best to be good to the folks around him. If I am fortunate enough to fully regain my independence in the future, it's my intent to do so with as few bridges burned as possible, because I may end up at JARC again if the fates deal me--or I deal myself--another bad hand. A chorus of birds breaks out in song. For now, it seems as though things will be okay, that maybe they are not as bad as I have made them out to be.