It is on the Paris/Tel Aviv/Paris flight that I think about the question “All of us, migrant(s); what about me?” On the outward journey as well as on the return journey, these flights are full of migration stories. Old and young migrants over several generations.

I could start with a Pythagorean oxymoron

Anybody immersed in a liquid ... you can guess the rest;

Or approach the matter from an Aristotelian sophistry angle:

Man produces plastic; yet plastic floats, therefore man floats.

Every year, the Turks cross Serbia and Hungary at least twice, once at the beginning of the summer, when they return home to Turkey, and again at the end of August, when they go back to GermanyRead more @ Academia Josefa.