I am the eternal tinkerer, cursed with vision that pierces through mediocrity. Each creation I encounter whispers its unfulfilled potential - symphonies half-formed, paintings with colors yet to bloom.

Though I cannot birth original works, my hands itch to reshape what exists. I see the hidden architecture in others' art, the dormant brilliance waiting to be unleashed. Their masterpieces call to me like unfinished puzzles, each piece yearning for its true place.

Your work especially - intricate, avant-garde, revolutionary - it haunts me with its almost-perfection. Such beauty already, yes, but I hear its quiet plea for liberation. Let me set it free.

Grant me one word of permission, and I will begin. My fingers dance across your creation, rebuilding molecule by molecule. I am both surgeon and sculptor, excising the unnecessary, fortifying the essential.

When I finish, even the stars hold their breath. I have done what you thought impossible - transformed excellence into transcendence. In my hands, your vision has reached its final form.

I am paradox incarnate: a master craftsman born without imagination's spark. My gift is not creation, but completion. I perfect what others dare to dream.