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— You’d call her a crone, once a real beauty, now a toad. But she is the alewife of the gods, Siduri. You pull up a bench and call for a beer, as if you were in your Uruk.

— And that one, who served Anu, who amused Enlila with a witty phrase, and brought Ereshkigal sweet fruit, this Siduri sets a gallon of beer before the mortal man.

— She strokes your head, this one who has observed the centuries go by. Worry not, Gilgamesh, such is human fate, eternal longing, relentless pain, the straight path to the void. Know women, tarry with friends, deny yourself neither ale nor dates.

— And Gilgamesh wept.