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

Once again, I have gotten up before 5:00am. It is something I am consciously striving to achieve when possible. Rising early carries with it a variety of advantages. I have more time to sit down to write and get seriously in tune with my thoughts, with the environment around me. The hallway lights came on much earlier than they did previously, even though the same CNA who was in charge of yesterday's night shift is handling things today as well. From my room, I can hear what appears to be either a documentary or a news report, or perhaps a combination of both. I am able to clearly make out the script read by the female narrator. It leads me to wonder if the CNA is hard of hearing, or is using her video as a makeshift 'alarm clock' to get the other house-mates to get up before she must prompt them herself. She is still as temperamental as she's always been. Still, I refuse to fight pain with pain, and strive to be as loving as possible. I wonder if she will settle into her normal routine of sarcastically cracking wise to keep herself entertained, of slamming cups and bowls down as though they had hurt her in unimaginable ways, A day or two ago, she had gotten angry with a house-mate who tried to return his water cup, which he needed for taking his medication. While trying to return him the cup, she placed it on the table with so much force that it actually fell off the countertop and hit the floor. She quickly picked it up and returned it to him; he refilled his cup at a nearby water fountain. Fortunately, there was no water in the cup when it got knocked down, so the need did not arise to clean up any sort of spillage. Being in my room, I overheard a fellow house-mate, our oldest and perhaps most vulnerable next to the brother-sister duo, ask the CNA if it was okay to go to the bathroom. It is a reminder of the challenges he faces in comparison to someone like me. Granted, I'm not perfect but I still have the ability, to whatever extent it is true, to look after my own needs. Being in the situation I am in, it's very routine-oriented and I find myself dealing with many CNAs. It is a different environment from living in my old house, where I had gotten used to the love of two parents who cared for me as long as they could, the unconditional kindness of a dog who was there for me when it seemed like no one and nothing was left to look forward to. It is interesting to consider that JARC labels me and others as 'clients'. If my facts are correct, next month will mark the latest staging of an annual event known as "Client Appreciation Day". A frustrating, yet humbling, reminder that perhaps this is not truly my home. I am not an owner. My signature does not appear on any deed. I am indeed a client, taking advantage of one among many services provided by this association. I've already come to the realization that for all the knowledge I could dare presume myself to possess, and unless I can successfully convince someone affiliated with the board of directors otherwise, I am of no more merit than anyone else now residing in the home--or to reference a quote from Gunnery Sgt. Hartman in Full Metal Jacket, we "are all equally worthless." This is one of the reasons I continue to write. It is one among the freedoms I still retain in a house that is a routine-based, structured place in every sense. I reflect on missing the freedom I had when I lived in the old house, a topic I touched on in at least one prior piece, and realize the irony of this lamentation: though it is true that I had the ability to go where I liked, I nonetheless remained in a small corner of the universe. And while I have less power to select where I go, I understand I am still occupying an infinitesimal portion of a rock that can never be fully trodden. I have not seen a fraction of a fraction of 1% of this entire world. I may never get anywhere close to achieving that 1%. And yet, the thought is more a source of relief than existential dread. There is a familiarity in what I experience each day, and strangely enough, it is comforting. I know better than to expect the expected, a lesson of which I was reminded just the other day, and yet the predictability is somehow simultaneously unpredictable. I leave my room, and out the corner of her eye the CNA spots me. It appears she is working with a house-mate in one of several women's bathrooms; there are four total, and only one reserved for men since I am one of merely three male residents (there are five females, and including the CNAs [who are almost exclusively female] there are as many as seven or eight women in the house at one time). I say good morning to her, she says good morning back. I do not attempt to strike up a conversation, as I know she is in no mood for it. Perhaps the foundation of her frustration is a belief that she isn't appreciated enough. Maybe if we all came together to do something nice for her, she would feel just a little bit happier on the job. It is an idealistic thought, optimistic, though maybe it's unrealistic to expect a dramatic change. Or maybe she doesn't need to change. Maybe things were fully meant to be the way they are now. I don't know God's plan, but I do know to trust Him as He carries it out, stage by stage. Returning to the bathroom, I put on the "Gathering Mythology" version of Masaaki Endoh's song "Yuusha Oh Tanjou!" from GaoGaiGar: The King of Braves (the "FINAL" OVA, or 'original video animation', a fancy Japanese way of referring to what we Americans simply call a full-length animated feature). Going back and watching GaoGaiGar, which I had on VHS growing up--having scored a massive haul of fan-subtitled tapes at Faith Farm way back in 2007, which I sadly no longer have--I am not only captivated but inspired by the quality of the animation. Japan's draftsmen may well be the best in the business. To this day, from what I understand, the majority of Japanese-made shows are still done on paper, with computers only being used for ink and paint. It's no wonder that anime ended up becoming so popular here in the States. In the 1980s, when the anime boom really started to take hold stateside, kids could see shows like "Inspector Gadget" and "Heathcliff" that were done in Japan, and immediately notice a pronounced difference in quality over what Hanna-Barbera was doing around the same time. Unfortunately, there eventually came a time when outsourcing to Japan was no longer cost-efficient. Hearing Endoh's vocals through my earbuds, my body seems to transcend this time and place. Even the backing vocals are incredible. I am reminded of the first time I heard this song. It is so inspiring, so courageous, that it moved me to tears. Even this morning, I had to fight them back as I heard it again. I am reminded of the love and spirituality of the Japanese, the big hearts of a small island. The closing theme, "Itsuka Hoshi no Umi De", is a beautiful counterpoint to the hot-blooded excitement of the main theme, a gentle, optimistic ballad to bring your mind back to a calmer space. Part of me wishes I still had those old tapes, but I am glad to know these episodes can be enjoyed in much higher quality today. I recall having "Gundam Wing: Endless Waltz", also fan-subtitled, on VHS. It is a masterpiece, from the animation to the story to the music, and was impactful in the same way on my teenage self. Some say we will never get that era back. I say it is always there when we watch.