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

7:30am. I cannot recall the last time I started writing so late in the morning. I already know for a fact that I will not be able to finish this piece before we are due out the door, not that it's ever been the goal. To me, writing is not a race against the clock, or a race against yourself. More than ever before, it has become a form of therapy for me, a way to express emotions that would otherwise be bottled up. Having seen what has become of many others who could not find an outlet with which to communicate their feelings in a positive way, one conducive to facilitating a healthy mental balance, I am grateful to have this paradise to return to, and the motivation to make the most of it while it is still available. Yesterday, I found myself compelled to write a piece, which I will share in full: "From out in the distance your reflection calls to me, a whisper of an ancient past. Giving no thought to an unpromised tomorrow, you beckon me to join you, to sit beside you on the grass, to return with you to the land that exists in our memories. It remains a memory, and though it lives in our hearts, we both realize so much has changed. And yet we can still remember what made those days so special. Holding hands, the smiles on our faces seem to temporarily vanquish the darkness that surrounds us. Hearts poisoned by hatred. Souls corrupted by vanity. Nature neglected by those for whom it was intended. Hoping against hope for brighter days ahead, it seems desolation is inevitable, that humanity is now at the mercy of those blinded by ambition, consumed with vengeance, compelled by delusions of grandeur. We cannot fully return to the old life. But if only for a few fleeting moments, love can bring us there one last time. We have aged so much. Even so you have always been young, a preserved rose in the vase of eternity. Your eyes sing the song of a life that has been lived to the fullest, of glories long forgotten, of adventures most could only dream of. We live in a world that was not meant for us, a world that could never see your beauty and never had anything to offer you apart from broken promises and shattered dreams. As time comes to a standstill, your embrace is a feeling superseding description, defying explanation. We are together again." During the writing process, I found myself revisiting archival footage of a sign-off sequence for the French TV station Antenne 2, recorded sometime between September 12, 1983 and early 1990. The animation is a mixture of two-dimensional and three-dimensional elements, a fascinating aesthetic that looks quite good for the time and is still charming in retrospect, but even more compelling to me was the music. It is a piece that seems to have been composed specifically for the sequence, the title and composer remaining unknown to this day, but had a tight grip on my heart from the first time I ever heard it, which was more than a decade ago at this point. Since then, I have always kept the melody in a corner of my mind; every time I hear it, I am transported back to the end of high school and the start of my college years. There are some who believe that there may never be such a thing as time travel, but I am now of the mind that we have always had it. Sights, sounds, and sensations can bring us back at a moment's notice to memories that may have seemed as though they would never return. Hearing a certain song, watching a certain show or film or seeing a certain piece of art can bring me back to my youth, to my parents, to the life I had once known. In the limitations of what once was, there is simple yet unforgettable beauty in these lovely memories that remind me of my childhood. It is always a pleasure to revisit such works of art. A gray overcast sky is visible through my window, dewdrops adorning the protective mesh. There has already been quite a bit of rain this morning, and we are almost certainly guaranteed to receive more before nightfall. "Let it be," I say to myself. "It is always a blessing." Fast-forward to 5:04pm. The rains which had briefly subsided upon my departure are steadily falling. My phone is connected to what turned out to be the only good one of my three short cords; one didn't work at all, and the other could not sustain enough voltage for the battery to be properly charged. Last night, I elected to use my phone for 'night music' yet again, to see if it could be loud enough to be heard from my bed while sleeping, while at the same time being quiet enough to ensure I would not have to worry about house-mates or staff knocking on my door to inform me of my impoliteness in having disruptive sounds late in the evening. Having successfully accomplished this mission, the CC radio remains in a storage box in my closet, the National Weather Service's computer voice once again confined to a place among my memories. Seeing the raindrops fall outside, I reflect on the gratitude the farmers must surely be feeling right now, realizing how much the rain will be beneficial to the growth of their crops. I reflect on the plants themselves and the gratitude they too must be feeling, knowing their parched thirsts are now being quenched. The late, great Indiana lawyer Max Ehrmann, best known as the man who wrote the famous poem "Desiderata" back in the 1920s, may have said it better than anyone: "With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world." It is a world filled with problems, but one that nonetheless gives us a heck of a lot to appreciate. My room is bathed in an atmospheric glow of subdued luminescence, its only points of origin being the LCD monitor and the low-key light that has managed to break through the clouds. Normally, the closet light would be on. I turn it on again to confirm what I had suspected earlier: the bulb is becoming temperamental, flickering on and off with little semblance of rhyme or reason in the timing. Seeing the light disappear and reappear intermittently in stops and starts, I consider the possibility that it represents the concepts of life and death, the absence of light signifying the death of the body and its resurrection representing the rebirth of the spirit. Though it is tempting to turn it off, I find myself drawn to its schizophrenic indecisiveness, its inability to determine whether it wants to stay on or fade into oblivion. Eventually, I become the controller of its fate, turning it off again. Basking in the glow of its artificial illumination, my eyes are drawn closer to my monitor. There is no need to worry about getting a headache, as I can recall happening several times when I was still using the CRT monitors; for all the things I enjoy about CRTs that was the only significant downside. Turning east, I start counting the individual dewdrops on my window. Each is slightly different from the rest. Every drop has its own story to tell. How one got there is not how another did, for though they may have all ended up in the same place, none took identical paths to reach their destination. So it is for humanity as a whole. For one reason or another, at one time or another, we transitioned from cosmic dust to a woman's womb. We all somehow ended up in this strange, confusing, odd timeline. I am sure none of the people I have written to were expecting a bizarre man from Florida to enter the picture. The issue: for as much as I strive to be considerate, I always seem to overstay my welcomes.