Father of mine, a journalist by occupation, was also an anonymous writer of speeches for local politicians during the Communist Era in former Yugoslavia. He used to save copies of those “voices for others”, until one day, when he burnt them all, but saved only paper-clips. A lot of them, hundreds! Days of retirement he spent in small village, self isolated, full of bitterness, and disappointment. Spoken legacy to his only son was to put that box beside his dead body in the coffin. He dies at the beginning of autumn 2007 and his son could not find the box in the large empty house full of nothing else, but memories, yet.