Format the following passage properly, for storytelling purposes.

As the strains of the music of "Xexex", tracks that have been playing on a loop in my head for most of the morning, begin to fade into a tranquil silence, I am returning to a calmer mental state. The faint hum of the ceiling fan provides the backdrop for me to settle into the events of the day, into whatever thoughts occur to me, if it is their destiny to be preserved in a manner such as this. With renewed concentration, I focus my energies on the song of a nearby bird. It is evident enough to be heard, but faint enough to become inaudible were its amplitude even one decibel less than it is. Glancing through a tiny hole in a nearby bush I observe various vehicles in motion, as they head out to destinations known only to themselves and whatever higher powers they believe in. For a moment, I contemplate the state of this reality. Is it truly what it appeared to be? Are they phantoms, phantasms preternaturally deciphered from within the depths of a mind calling out to me to get some more rest? Were the cars products of an overly stimulated imagination? A half-second pinch provides all the confirmation I could desire. This is life. 250 million galaxies, and I was born for this one, for this timeline and all the insane events that continue to be added to the history books. For all the ugliness, there still remains beauty to be found. As an artist, I feel a sense of duty to explore it to the fullest extent of which I am capable, to do my part to ensure I leave the world in better condition than it was when I departed from the womb of my dear mother, who sacrificed her freedom so I could have my own, who fought bravely for as long as she possibly could against an adversary assured of inevitable victory. No longer am I nebulous dust that floats within an infinite cosmos, a star for an astronomer to view under a telescope presuming optimal night conditions, a line of light forming a constellation. Nearly thirty-two years ago, I transitioned from insemination, to fertilization, to a final manifestation as flesh and blood. I don't know if my heart was supposed to still be beating by this point, but it is. There is vision in my eyes, sound in my ears. Ten fingers are aligned on the keyboard, each one arranged in as immaculate a configuration as can possibly be achieved. My left pinky handles the left shift key, two thumbs rest on the space-bar, leaving seven for navigating the letters, numbers, and miscellaneous punctuation. I have two legs, two feet, ten toes. For all of the sugar I've consumed in my lifetime I am blessed to have never needed an amputation. I have never been wheeled out on a gurney or put in the back of an ambulance. Someday, I may not be so lucky, but for now I cherish what remains of my youth, knowing that if I'm lucky enough, I'll get to know what middle age feels like. I often tell people "I'm still young, but not as young as I used to be." The television is now off, the echoes of the Cubs' virtual victory over Cleveland having long since trailed off into the ether. A brief session of watching "Sanford and Son" was followed by a few seconds of "Sesame Street". Much to my disappointment, I didn't get a chance to hear Fred admonish Lamont for being a 'big dummy'. Most likely, Lamont is hearing it right now, but I'm not tempted to turn on the TV to find out. Come noontime, TV One will transition to a marathon of "Good Times", apparently intended to focus on Esther Rolle's character Florida (though I'm sure it will ultimately turn into a J.J. marathon, in more ways than one). I might try and catch a little bit of Unsung around 11:00am or so; there doesn't seem to be much else on, and "Arthur" doesn't come back on until 5:00pm, at which time we'll have either arrived at or departed from a local restaurant. Luckily, there will also be a showing at 7:30pm, though it is an episode I already caught a few times on Friday. Still, there is no such thing as too much "Arthur". It's another chance to hear, among many great vocal performances, a younger Sonja Ball as Jane Read in the "Arthur's Baby/D.W.'s Baby" pairing. Early episodes feature Jane more prominently, as she sadly went from a secondary to tertiary character in later seasons. I hear footsteps scuffling, and wonder if someone is coming to see me. Only seconds later, I know exactly which house-mate it is, as I briefly hear the buzzing of an electric razor. A butterfly with yellow wings and black stripes flies from left to right, to the left again, eventually out of sight. The butterfly has his freedom, and the leaves rustle outside, almost in a sense of acknowledgment, briefly guided by a calm wind. In this room, I do not feel like a prisoner. It has become my monastery, my thinking place. Even confined by the four walls that surround me, I retain my right to feel, to reflect. Even so, confinement itself is an illusion. Too often people will see the world in 'all or nothing' terms. Everything becomes a 'winner takes all' proposition. If one does not have all the freedom, they supposedly have none. Two black birds fly outside, embracing theirs. The specters of more vehicles appear in the distance, visible through that same hole in that same bush. My mother, who long ago was a motorcycle enthusiast and the proud owner of a Harley-Davidson, used to refer to cars as 'cages'. The motorcyclist rides a body; the vehicle driver confines themselves inside another body. The vehicle becomes an extension of the person who is driving it, as though it were a second skin. Yet even within the protection and confinement of their 'cage', the vehicle driver has just as much freedom as a motorcyclist. They are free to follow a predetermined route, free to consider their next stop, to get lost and to be found. A few more butterflies, all of whom appear to have the same yellow wings and black stripes as the one I had seen previously, gather outside. They fly around, from left to right, up and down, enjoying the green leaves and hot pink flowers. Eventually they too are out of sight, but come back briefly for one more round. A few more butterflies come, this time with fully black wings. The sun is not as radiant as it had been for the last few days, but the luminescence rises and falls intermittently, departing and returning at intervals. Another butterfly flies to the right, and seemingly towards me, before going leftward. He flies around spontaneously, soloist engaged in an extemporaneous dance, before taking a metaphorical bow and disappearing. Quietly clasping my hands, I acknowledge his presence. I am free to stay or leave, but wouldn't dare give up what I have now.