Your last sensation is pressure. Throat and mouth work, opening and closing like a man searching for a lie he never expected needing to tell. Family and loved ones disconsolately stare on as your corpse hardens. A hole is excavated and your husk is tumbled into a thrice-used casket, where ebon maggots and frostbitten rodents gnaw into each and every one of the body's secret places. Your resting place is soil and silence, root and the antediluvian carcass of an entropic earth. It is a Cold Frozen Grave.