Monks inhabit the caves of Myanmar. Between dirt roads and huge potholes, we reach the foot of a statue of the Buddha. The entrance is wide but gradually narrows. We climb through so many recesses that I realise I would not be able to find my way back. Claustrophobia. I feel a little scared. It seeps in like water through the rock. The colours become textures, lights in the shadows. Transformation. Stalactites and stalagmites remind us that even the permanent can erode. It's as if time wants to tell us something. Soft forms. Porous textures. Water marks. Footprints. We are so small. The monk waits for us with a special affection. We were the first foreigners to visit his cave and we felt enormously privileged.