What's the last thing that goes through a bug's mind when it hits the windshield?

After crossing the Missouri south of Culbertson bugs began hitting the windshield. Not all at once, but one every minute or so. Each bug made the same "pop" noise and left an identical mark. For 25 miles it was like driving through a slow snowstorm. After a while I learned to watch for them like they were snowflakes, leaning forward in my seat, cheering those who would rise up at the last millisecond and avoid the windshield, wincing as the slow or unlucky came hurtling at the windshield, oblivious to their fate until the last terrible, final instant when what had been the air supporting them became the hardest thing they had ever known and they became one more identical mark, anonymous in their death.

Man it's boring driving in northeast Montana.