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

A bird chirps outside. Another bird flies by my window, with a couple of things on its mind, thoughts that are all too willingly expressed. Terse though its communication is, the impact lasts for a while before my mind shifts to other things. On my desk sits a humble lug nut, rusted out through prolonged exposure to the sun. I pick it up, converting it from a horizontal to a vertical orientation. Moving it clockwise several times, I contemplate how long it would have had to have been out there to gather so much rust. Because a strange young man was willing to pick it up and bring it in his room, there's no longer any risk of this lug nut potentially deflating a car tire, which is good for us considering it had been near the gates through which our house manager drives us out of the Yamato Shoppes on our weekday morning trips to the day program, where we stay from around 8:30am to shortly after 2:00pm. I have Mypal open to an instance of Nitter (a Twitter/X frontend that makes it possible, to an extent, to view pages without actually being logged in--which is good for me since I don't use Twitter at all anymore). The page in question belongs to Tamayo Kawamoto, one of my favorite game music composers. Her stern, weathered expression in her cover photo penetrates to the depths of my soul, but rather than being intimidated, I feel a sense of motivation. It is as though she is keeping an eye on me. Another photo features her with a gentler look on her face, the smile of someone who has been through the ups and downs of life and learned how to take the bitter with the sweet, choosing to hold on with a sense of optimism even when feelings of frustration and loneliness come. I see a lot of her within myself, and remember the times when I used to talk to her. She's busier these days, older, perhaps a bit more protective of her privacy, thanks in no small part to the stupidity of several years prior. I emailed her a few weeks back, not expecting a response, and sure enough a reply never came; I do know the email address is still valid, as I did not receive a subsequent Mailer Daemon error message. "Maybe she just doesn't use this one anymore," I think to myself. Anything to lessen the guilt. It is one of many mistakes I've made, but these mistakes are what forged the fire that burns within me now. I tell myself again, as I have told myself many times before, that if I could do it all over again, I wouldn't change a single thing. I had to be myself in order to become a better self. I am stunned and repeat the phrase in my mind: I had to be myself in order to become a better self. I'm a new Cameron, a model improved in every way from the old one. The people I used to talk to have undergone a similar transformation. They are versions up from where they had once been. I have no doubt that my new model would have made a better impression on their old models, but how well would their current models have interacted with mine, presuming we were talking for the first time? The answer will remain unknown. It's just as well. I had my chances, and did what I did with them. They were all teachers. Each loss taught me something I did not know about myself. I remain a work in progress, flawed, a thin strip of beauty masking many ugly layers. And yet, I have never been closer than I am now to being all that I was meant to be. Time has humbled me, knocked me to the ground, thrown me into the dark, vandalized my soul with crimson trademarks. I'm still here. I shouldn't be. For whatever reason, God decided He isn't through with me yet. The words of Iran Barkley echo within my spirit: "He don't make mistakes." Reflecting on Barkley's optimism, years removed from a loss to journeyman Keith McKnight that sent the Bronx warrior into retirement, as he spoke of a potential title fight against Nikolai Valuev that never came to pass, I realize that if he could believe in himself, there's no reason for me not to do the same. I can only wonder what was going through the interviewer's mind. Did Barkley's words carry enough resonance to make him believe that he was going to do what he spoke of doing? I can't help but think that it did not matter to Barkley one way or the other. When you have that much faith, opinions are no longer of any relevance. Even if a dream doesn't come true, what would life be without dreams? We speak of hopes, of ambitions. We visualize what could be, and think of ways to make it all happen. A few put those plans into action, and fewer still bring them from the seed of creation to a reality. What would our world be if we only dared to dream the dreams that we knew for a fact would come true? Every dream is worth having,but only God can determine what dreams will come true and which will not. Be it for good or evil, everything that happens is a result of destiny. Seldom is random chance truly random. We can maneuver our ship in various directions, but our final destination has been determined long in advance. The power we have as humans can feel infinite at times, and yet events come along to remind us of our mortality. I realize that I am not the sharpest tool in the shed. Sometimes it takes me several seconds to figure certain things out. But would I wish for a faster brain? No, because I'm happy with the one He gave me. Every moment where I make a mistake, or overthink, or underthink, is a reminder that I'm not perfect. Genuine perfection was only ever meant for the Creator and His one and only begotten Son. With the light in the sky slowly fading into night, I turn on a lamp to the left of my monitor, and take a look at the lug nut again. What had once been a perfect gray has become a rich chocolate brown, sprinkled with specks of powdered caramel and marshmallow. I feel like it would be a superb cereal: chocolate lug nut-shaped puffs with caramel, marshmallow and graham cracker bits. I twirl the lug nut in my left hand a few more times, before placing it in front of my keyboard, and eventually in a drawer on my right-hand side. I reinstalled Windows XP earlier today, as a way for me to shake off some of my own rust,to see if I still have my traditional installation method memorized. Thankfully, the answer to that question is 'yes!' I found out this afternoon that a new version of my favorite XP-compatible browser "Mypal" had been released, but also discovered that several users were not happy with certain aspects of its functionality. It has a powerful engine, improved in some ways over my preferred version (68.13.7, released in November 2023), but is a bit more unstable than that old release. It is not a perfect browser--no browser is perfect--but 68.13.7 is still doing all that I need it to do on a day-to-day basis. Thankfully, with newer versions of Mypal available, and other browser projects currently in development, it looks like XP users have been afforded some extra time before we have to inevitably upgrade. I'll keep riding that train until it arrives at its last stop. Remembering the old saying about how 'less is more,' I found myself downloading only a small handful of games for my favorite emulators (Fusion 3.64, MAME 0.69, Nestopia 1.40, SNESGT 0.218 and VisualBoy Advance 1.7.2). I want to try and keep only a few games on hand at a time, so as not to make a folder feel bloated with titles that would rarely, if ever, be played. The "Tecmo Super" titles, NHL '98 and International Superstar Soccer Deluxe are among the keepers. Old-school classics that still hold up.