The insensible life is not worth living. Indeed the insensible life is but a semblance of living. We experience life as lived through its sensibilities. Those sensibilities grow into the fact of our awareness; however, the sensible life is determined by the reach of awareness rather than its grasp – for supposing to hold on to what we have been made aware of amounts to an artificial form of its true reality, a restricted and burdensome facsimile of its liberating enlightenment. And what hell waits upon the fabrication of awareness as something conscripted to our possession?