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

Life is so much bigger than myself, this house far more than the needs and reflections of one person. The last sixty days have been fundamental to my development, not only with regards to my role here at the Joshua House but my understanding of why I am here on this planet, writing these words right now. One of my house-mates engages in a brief session of quick staccato clapping. He expresses a sound of excitement before unleashing some more claps. A few grunts follow shortly thereafter. I have become accustomed to these noises, not merely by virtue of having been here for almost two complete calendar months at this point but through the bond I have made with this young man, however major or minor in the grand scheme of things. He is four or five years my senior, but still has the innocent mind of a child. He has found comfort in the pleasures of childhood, nostalgic reflections of what felt like a simpler, kinder time in our world. A Super Mario clock can be found on one of the walls of his room. Above his bed is a full-size "Home Alone" poster, which I believe was meant to promote the home media release of the film. Seeing Macaulay Culkin's iconic 'surprised' face whenever I pass by that room, I too am whisked back to the innocence of the early 1990s. He would have been only two or three years of age when that film was released; on the other hand, I was born almost two years after its release. A much smaller poster commemorating the release of the sequel "Home Alone 2: Lost in New York", most likely taken out of a magazine from that time-frame, can be found on the same wall as the Mario clock. My house-mate makes another noise; it seems to be located halfway between excitement and uncertainty. The squeaking of his shoe soles can be heard from all the way in my room; it is not an ear-splitting nails-on-a-chalkboard sort of sound, but seems to vary in intensity depending on how excited he gets. He seems to be quite excited now, as he releases an enthusiastic "Yeah!" The squeaks continue, faster than they had been just a couple of minutes ago. I relieve tension in my knuckles; three cracks come in rapid succession. His excitement is growing; another "Yeah!" can be heard, this time more intense. I can only imagine what the cause of his excitement must be, as it has just reached a fever pitch! He releases two more squeals of glee, which are the impetus for a round of blissful, passionate screams. In this moment, I cannot help but wish that the entire world could be feeling such excitement. Early this morning, having taken a seat on one of the couches to enjoy a portion of the six o'clock news--as much as you possibly can given how negative the majority of such information often turns out to be--he came to join us, taking his usual spot near one of the armrests and wearing a shirt that is a bit less eye-catching compared to his usual standards. And yet, in its absence of comic book art and other exciting images, it has caught my attention by virtue of a simple yet powerful message branded upon the front side, in white uppercase 'outline' letters: "ENJOY LIFE". (I did not include a period within the quoted section, as the word 'LIFE', as it is presented on the shirt, does not end in one.) Some may take it as a suggestion, others as a command. To me, it's advice to be taken to heart, words that we seldom live out, an ideal to strive for. The more time I spend around him and his sister, the more I understand just how extraordinary they both are. I see more of them in myself than I do in the others with whom I share this house, though I love them all dearly. Their hearts are pure, innocent. They do not ask for much or require much to be happy. Three meals a day, an available bathroom when the need arises for maintenance and relief, moments to laugh and play, and a quiet environment to get some rest when they are tired. (And, of course, access to a reliable source of clean drinking water.) Our house manager has just finished up with giving a young man helping out today as a 'day shift' CNA a tour of the house; when they stopped at my room, I am sure the manager was rather surprised to find out that I had already finished up with the laundry. Though I did receive some assistance from a CNA yesterday--who also happens to be one of the supervisors in the JARC kitchen, and was filling in for another CNA who was unavailable due to personal obligations or unforeseen circumstances--I've gotten the hang of how the machines work. The washers are both top-loaders, the dryers, both front-loaders. Though they use knobs and dials, rather than being button-based as the washer/dryer combination at the old house was, it is no trouble for me to figure out the system. It comes to me as naturally as making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, though I regret that my skills in that department have eroded drastically. In this house, meals are prepared and served by others; the only opportunities that I receive to exercise my creativity come in the form of experimenting with the food once it's been served. This may include dipping graham cracker teddy bears in a tapioca or rice pudding 'pool' (a very delicious combination that I actually encourage you to try!), or as I mentioned in a prior piece, creating a makeshift 'wrap' by separating a banana into pieces and distributing them atop a half-slice of bagel. Much as riding a bike, it seems making a sandwich is a hard procedure to forget once you have become accustomed to the process. It is as automatic as the Pointer Sisters circa 1984. Though I regret that I somehow neglected to use any Bounce sheets when drying the clothes off, again my mind finds a way to spin it into a positive; the sheets I didn't use can now be used by the other residents ('clients') for their clothes. There is a healthy sense of pride and independence that can come with knowing you were mostly able to take care of the laundry on your own. Being someone with a relatively high level of cognitive function, and still of able body, I'm hoping to find opportunities to help out, and make them whenever possible. It could be something as simple as electing to bring a house-mate's plate, bowl, and cups to the kitchen counter, or picking up loose bits of food they may have accidentally spilled onto the ground; this is a problem afflicting one particular house-mate, through no fault of her own. I almost took her wares to the kitchen, but stopped short of doing so when she was encouraged by another house-mate to do it on her own. I realized that part of getting better at something is doing it yourself. My earliest essays and stories will never see the light of day, and for good reason as they are awful. But were it not for those early efforts, I wouldn't have had a groundwork to expand upon. I can hear a toilet flushing just outside my door; at the same time, I flush my own proverbial toilet, to cleanse myself of the noise that periodically permeates my mind. As if on cue, I hear a grunt that resides somewhere in the median point between excitement and anger; it metamorphoses into a couple of enthusiastic squeals, followed by a slightly more energetic squeal. The house manager is currently out, taking care of business in the 'real world', a world to which I'm rarely exposed these days. And yet I can't complain. There is safety and comfort in our corner of the universe. A bird chirps as though it could read my mind, as if to say "everything will be all right."