Format the following passage properly, for storytelling purposes.

8:08, but no heartbreak. A clever way to open up this piece...or at least it might have been had I actually started typing at 8:08am. Alas, it is 8:06 right now, but I couldn't bring myself to wait another two minutes when I had finally gotten into my groove. A gentle luminescence adorns my Roland MA-12 speakers (or 'micro monitors'; they're indeed powerful enough to be used as monitor speakers in a professional studio). Pain still remains in my lower back; since moving in, I've been using a black chair that was already in my room when I moved in, which was evidently meant to be used by people lighter and shorter than I am. It offered minimal back support for someone a foot shorter than me and none for someone who is 5'11", and has nothing left to offer now, as the backboard is starting to come loose. Wood bits have chipped off, and as I try to rest my back upon its dilapidated base, I can feel it coming apart under the weight of my mass. Even the house manager has acknowledged this is dangerous, and from what I understand arrangements are being made for me to have a new chair. I can only hope that it will be better for my back. The previous individual who occupied this room is not someone I'm completely unfamiliar with; in fact, I have spent some time with him at the achievement center, during workout sessions on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I remember him as someone who likes to communicate with touch; while we were using the treadmill together, he would reach out his hand to touch mine. I can't remember ever pulling away. Actually, I was more than happy to meet him halfway. When you're in the gym, you're among people who become brothers and sisters in a sense. Even though you are pursuing your goals individually, all of you are (or should be) as soldiers on the battlefield. You want to be assured that if you end up in a dangerous situation, the others will have your back, and vice versa. Fortunately, that did not turn out to be the case during any of my sessions. As of the last time I worked out in that room, I was getting some initial practice with weightlifting; if I do get to work out again, I'll basically need to start fresh as I haven't gotten a chance to lift any weights since. The trainer, a friend of Evelyn's, was apparently quite impressed with my technique and desire, even voluntarily giving me a high-five. "Wow!" I said to myself. "I must have done something right!" Hopefully it will have marked the start of good things to come. I lay down again upon the backboard. It is not loosening as much as before, unless I truly put all of my weight on it. Sinking into its caress, I find my back pain is actually going away. A satisfying 'pop' is felt. Perhaps this chair has much better back support than I gave it credit for; a shame it works better in a horizontal orientation than a vertical one. I am tempted to lay down again, but don't want to take a chance on that backboard snapping off the base. Liquids having accumulated, I rise to relieve a bladder that calls out for drainage of the excess. Upon opening the door, I see the oldest of the house-mates, the seventy-six-year-old, standing in the middle of his doorway, his body engaged in consistent side-to-side movement. He has no issues with using the bathroom, though I'm sure the amount of fiber we're getting on a daily basis has been helpful in that regard. My father used to joke that I lived in the bathroom, given the number of times I found myself using it every day; this older gentleman makes me look like a lightweight by comparison. I am unsure why he is moving around; suspecting that another house-mate is in there, I pause for a moment, facing the wall in front of me and bearing more than a slight resemblance to your average NPC in a video game. As it turns out, no one was in there at all, and I had inadvertently cost myself a chance to use the bathroom. Our only other male house-mate leaves the sanctity of his room to take care of business; remembering that this young man has a history of not closing the door when he goes in, the older man quickly rushes to close the door and stands by until he has finished. As for me, I'm still in my room, still typing. I rise to see if the bathroom is now available, and ponder the odds that the older man will be waiting to go in once I am done. It tends to happen at least once a day. Sure enough, it is there for the taking, and sure enough, he waits in the wings. This time, he is standing in his room but facing the bathroom door. Normally he is waiting right outside, standing in the middle of the hallway. Sitting in my 'customized' chair once again, I feel two sneezes come over me. I know I'm not allergic to anything, and I haven't been feeling the least bit sick as of late. It could be dust or pollen, but my room doesn't have either in abundance. Maybe it is the fan, combined with the temperature. In any event, I have absolutely no complaints. Living in Florida, when you get to enjoy a cooler climate, you make of it what you can. I rest my back on the board once again, do the 'three-crack' on my knuckles and gaze into the ceiling, into the four walls. The geometry captivates me, as I consider how one side connects to the next. There is no popcorn on the ceiling, but I do see a texture of some sort. To my unskilled eyes, it resembles a collection of abstract splotches on a milky white canvas. Looking up a website that describes and showcases thirteen different types of ceiling textures, the closest match seems to be the 'skip trowel' texture. The walls have a texture all their own, which appears to be the 'orange peel' from the same list. Following a period of initial 'shyness', a reluctant sun has finally begun to strut its stuff, casting gorgeous radiance upon an adjacent bush and the Mitchell House that is directly adjacent to ours. The bush closest to my windows wasn't receiving as much light, and is now getting even less as the sun has become 'shy' again. Hearing a toilet flush in the distance, the sound relaxes me. If I hadn't turned it off earlier, that flush would have been drowned out by the sound of my TV, which as of this morning was tuned in to "Arthur", and later a bit of "Molly of Denali". I hoped to hear Sonja Ball or Holly Gauthier-Frankel, but alas, Jane was not in either of the episodes, and Fern was seen but not heard from. Perhaps tomorrow, I will be luckier. I am tempted to send Sonja an email, as it has been two weeks since the last time I heard from her. Some family members will be staying at her house throughout the month. Maybe it's best to wait until June comes; she's got plenty enough going on now.