'Buttered daylight' by Hypercomf at Athens Conservatoire, Athens

Don’t you love it when you get to come down here? I have been a few times before you know, but its never the same. Have you been under many times before? Just a couple. Don’t worry, relax we are going to be fine, we will take the samples and be back up surfacing in an hour. The problem with being this deep is its so dark and weightless, there is no up and down , no reference point, it makes your brain compass go crazy. Anyways it takes some time to descent to our final depth so I will tell you a story:

The accident wasn’t her fault but there she was, looking down at his right hand, three fingers missing, it looked like a tool made for a mysterious different function. He was looking at the same unbelievable shape, with ghostly doubt. The missing fingers had seconds ago competed for the same space with a fast moving metal wood saw and as a result had been propelled in different directions across the wood workshop. One was lying close by the severed hand, just on the edge of the cutting surface of the machine, still needing to be part of the whole,  still trying to figure out what to do with its newfound freedom. The second finger had flown across the room and had gathered dust and hair as it rolled on the floor till it finally came to a stop in a corner, happily lying dazed next to other bolts, screws and forgotten scraps. The third finger had the most momentum for flight, leaping outside the window and landing on the pavement. There it layed, pink and juicy, no wonder it was instantly picked by a promenading pigeon. The pigeon lifted the finger up in the air and flew away over the city, pointing at people and objects from above. Finally it headed towards a big building, looking for a quiet, private spot like a dusty window ledge to feast on the blood dripping meat. The bird landed noisily at the edge of a balcony and was about to secure its grip on the finger, as that moment an old lady flung open the balcony door and the pigeon dropped the finger on the floor and fled away in shock. The old lady picked up the strange object and squinted her eyes to have a better look. A finger. Was it  a message from the sky, who is this visitor of flesh and bone? what had it come to say to her? She brought the finger in, cleaned it up with a paper towel and put it in a glass jar. She filled the jar all the way up with cooking oil and screwed on the lid tightly. The finger was floating around in the yellow liquid like a compass, pointing at the ceiling, then the walls, the kitchen cabinet and it settled pointing at the old lady. Who, me? The lady asked and the finger nodded its tip in agreement, as it bobbed in the oil. What? What do you want from me, visitor? The finger bobbed side to side for a bit and stopped pointing straight at the apartment door. The old lady went to the door, opened it, got out with the jar in her hands and nobody saw her ever again.

Why are you telling me this story? How is what we are doing now, like following a finger in a jar of cooking oil?