Not a new soul, still with the musky exuberance and good hope of a newly minted dog, nor an old soul gracefully stepping over the pitfalls, operating the humanity thing for best results and with few illusions, gracefully minimal and just, but one of the vast ungainly hoard of middle souls, thinking you've got the hang of a consciousness like this one but making every mistake in the book and painful to watch doing so, eternal adolescent, a cosmic grimace, honest only in self-contempt.