The Writer's Block

A cube, without a doubt. Nothing else. Nothing more stubbornly stable than an object radiating equality (L=B=H). At the moment, nothing seems fair. What is there to expect? After all, a cube is not a red, rolling, bouncing ball.
No bigger than my fingers, them who grip your pen during an exam or now, a hammer and a chisel, after an extensive rummage throgh my tool box. Trying my damndest to obliterate the eyesore. Hear that? That's the monotony of destruction. 'Thud...thud...thud', a mere 10 cm in height, it seems colossal at the moment... can't see over it.
'Goo, goo, ga!' Good lordy hordy! Where the hell did that come from? A chubby little hand grabbed the block, adding it to the now finished creation. Voila! A bridge! A brilliant display of engineering genius! Let's see what's on both sides (in case you have yet to figure out, a bridge joins two places, physical or otherwise). On one, grass grows greener than the greenest pastures. On the other, a withered lanscape of cracked ground, on which stands a bewildered-looking man holding a hammer and a chisel. Was he trying to destroy that bridge? What an absolute fool! Wait a minute, maybe he was just trying to repair it...
A grunt, an ancient hand lined with age reached for the block. He unsrews it. In goes the tip of the felt-tip pen. Continues to work on an equally ancient manuscript, with a little help from the flickering flame of the candle. The hand accidentally knocked the block over... nothing spilled out.