Conspiracy of Cartographers?

Written for the Moneta prompt; a cartography, of sorts.

Where do things begin and where do they end?

broken
shattered cracked crazed crushed crunched blasted
demolished destroyed demoralized dehumanized decomposed imploded exploded torn twisted stressed smashed-

When something falls, glass especially, there is always that moment
when you wonder- is it going to hit the ground?
You hope, for a moment- just a moment- that it won't, that this time, this time it will just stop - there, six inches above the ground, hovering smug.
Or you watch it tilt, tip, turn, and feel that cold clench at the base of your ribcage, like a fist, like death- knowing you can't move quickly enough, knowing your reflexes are never fast enough. It moves through the air and you watch it fall- not in slow motion, just normal, every day acceleration due to gravity, nine point eight straight down with allowances for air resistance and distance from the center of the earth. It falls and you watch and you watch and it falls and you can't really think of anything beyond a half-hearted, resigned-
oh, no.
And then there's the noise, the crash, the sound of molecules disengaging, bonds breaking, energy being released in vibrations through the air, disturbing the membranes of your ear. Your heart races in the aftershock, with ice flowing through your veins.
You pick up the pieces in a dustpan, throw them away (more noise, but muted, sliding, the sound of teeth along a fork, or fingernails along your nerves). Wipe up the dust, the grit.
Your heartbeat slows, steadies, and life goes on. Maybe, later when you take out the trash, you'll hear the pieces of it rattling at the bottom of the bag; maybe you'll find a bit of dust, sharp and bright, between your toes the next time you walk barefoot across the kitchen; you'll stop and thing again, soft and resigned-
oh, no
and then life resumes; situation normal.