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

Monday, May 27, 2024. I had not intended to write a piece this morning. Actually, it was supposed to be my first 'day off' from writing in quite some time. But sure enough inspiration struck once again, as it always seems to when the idea of taking a break rears its head. A strange type of 'night music' accompanied my rest last night: a compilation of promotional consideration messages read by the late Lord Alfred Hayes for syndicated WWF series during the early 1990s. Hayes proved to not only be an exceptional athlete in the ring but a shockingly competent announcer in the broadcast booth, using his iconic "Masterpiece Theatre" diction to bring numerous wrestling events and countless pieces of advertising copy to life. No matter what products he was called on to pitch to viewers, he sold them with such passion as to make it seem as though your life would be significantly worse without them. As someone who probably meets the basic requirements to be considered a 'writer' now, I feel a sense of obligation to share my stories to the best of my ability, but also an impetus to 'sell' them, not so much in the sense of diluting the meaning down to the essence of what is most commercially viable but giving you something to latch onto. For me, writing is a form of therapy, and mental gymnastics. Each piece is an opportunity to account for my thoughts in a way that is most meaningful and special, in the context of that particular moment in time. But how much of a dividing line have I drawn? Have I distanced myself from you, to the point where you feel as though you cannot relate to me anymore, without even realizing it? Did I get too close, and make you feel uncomfortable? There is no way for me to know. If it were possible to be all things to all people, I would strive for the most perfect compromise achievable. Alas, I can only be the things that make me who I am. And that is fine by me. If I can give a little inspiration, or a bit of encouragement, to just one reader, I've accomplished what I set out to do from the start. The TV is turned off, my heart tuned into the distant harmonies of a bird. Cars travel to and fro, observed through the same big openings in that same beautiful bush which has been long visible through my window. Police sirens transform the bird's song into an avant-garde composition, a dissonant interpolation that proves unusually compelling if for no other reason than the rarity with which the tones clash. Leaving the house this morning to take out the garbage, I am greeted by a chorus of birds, each singing a different song yet somehow all blending in immaculate concordance. Traces of the moon are still visible, though with a greater portion of the night having dispersed into the celestial ether, less of its presence is detectable compared to that which I had witnessed only a day or two prior. A black bird flies southeast, en route to an unknown destination. Holding an outstandingly heavy bag compared to the norm, I approach the dumpster, keeping a distance. With any luck, Boca Raton's finest trash collectors will account for its contents soon. Unfortunately, until then, it is now and will remain a magnet for flies. Indeed, a multitude have gathered around the bags populating its inner storage space. Not wanting to take a chance on the odds of my health potentially being jeopardized through the distribution of whatever diseases they might be harboring, I summon all my strength and toss the bag in from afar. Though it is not normally in my character to give myself a pat on the back, even I can't help but be taken aback at the finesse of my throw. Another bird chirps outside and it's possible there may be another offering accompaniment as tones are heard in more than one octave. Tilting my head northwest, I glance through the window and am greeted by a perfectly blue sky, with nary a cloud in sight. Two dragonflies fly eastward. I remember the butterfly I saw at the park two days ago, its wings a luscious orange with black spots, and wonder if I was destined for it, if it was meant to come into my life. Was it a coincidence, or an indicator of good fortunes forthcoming? Both, perhaps? I may never know the answer, but I do know it is free. In its flight, it traverses its sempiternal surroundings and reminds me of the many environments it would be nice to someday explore. Looking up the sports results from yesterday, I am greeted by a variety of final results that are of no consequence to me, but am interested in how the NHL's Eastern Conference finals are going so far. The Rangers, as I had expected, defeated the Panthers with an overtime goal, taking it by a score of 5-4. The numbers show that the Rangers were much more accurate when their scoring opportunities came; though they got approximately a third of the chances that the Panthers got, they scored on a superior percentage of theirs. The Panthers are a team with heart and dominated from an aggression standpoint, but it was not enough to overcome the Rangers' superior finesse. I anticipate that this same finesse will lead them to their first Stanley Cup win in thirty years, though part of me is also hoping for the Edmonton Oilers to achieve the feat, as they would give Canada their first NHL champions in more than three decades. Then again, the Panthers are resilient. Only time will tell how it all turns out. With today being Memorial Day, I pull out the Purple Heart of Lionel H. Cornwell, a member of the "Greatest Generation" of soldiers who served in World War II. Though he was not killed in battle, he survived a wound that could have proved fatal, his courage a trademark of pure crimson, etched into the tapestry of the millions of soldiers who have bravely fought to protect our country. I was forced by circumstances to leave a lot of things behind when I left the old house, but am deeply grateful to have kept something that symbolizes the warrior spirit of a great man. I am reminded of my stepfather Richard, himself a relative of Cornwell, and the presence he had in my life for more than twenty-five years. I will never forget all of the things Richard did for the family, including taking me to and from university for four years. He could be tough, but it was always with the best intentions, as he wanted me to live up to my full potential. Wherever he may be, I'll do my utmost to make him and Mom proud. I hope I will have ultimately given them much more to smile about than to be disappointed in. I glance out my window again, and observe how the trees remain nearly motionless, sans the movement of the leaves. Another dragonfly flies by, heading east. A bird chirps again for a few moments. All returns to silence thereafter, save for the cleaning activities happening in the hallway. The 'night shift' CNA asked me to stay in my room for about five minutes so that the floor of the men's bathroom could finish drying. It gives me a chuckle now as I was wearing slip-resistant shoes, but it wasn't a laughing matter at the time. Thankfully, I remain constipation-free. This same CNA proved a gracious listener last night; observing a photograph on my windowsill I brought it to her and spoke of my Mom, wistfully recalling an abundance of nostalgic memories. I told her of my experiences in college; she spoke of wanting to finish her own university studies. She seems to believe in me. I believe she will go on to better things in life. We won't be in this house forever. Eventually, we'll be out of here.