Glass

To the man, it was just a glass. The edge of the table was just…well, the edge of a table. He had far too many consuming problems of his own to notice the poor glass, suspended on the edge of what seemed a magnificent precipice.
The glass had been set there days before, full of water. And there it stayed, passively watching in silence as the world shifted around it. Dust gathered, both around it, and within its contents. The glass had no power over this, so it sat, mellow and implacable, as time went on and the man hurried about his busy life.
The glass was new. It had no story, no dramatic tale full of drama and sorrow and intrigue. No family history. No, this glass was quite modern and distinctly boring. It was just a glass, made in a factory in Mexico, and packaged in plastic with eleven other perfectly identical glasses. It was an industrial product, with no personality and no individuality. Yet it was about to, for the first time, make an imprint upon history.
A light breeze filtering through the window had been at work all day, causing the glass to shift ever closer to the edge of the chasm, the end of the world, as it were. Now, as the man opened the door, the glass teetered on the brink. The vibrations of the man’s footsteps became the stimulus required for the energy to be released. The glass tipped, and, in one loaded millisecond, began its descent towards the ground.