On the sidewalk across from me, near the entrance to a barbecue joint, some people were holding an old-fashioned revival meeting. The barbecue cook, wearing a dirty white apron, his conked hair reddish and metallic in the pale sun, and a cigarette between his lips, stood in the doorway, watching them. Kids and older people paused in their errands and stood there, along with some older men and a couple of very tough-looking women who watched everything that happened on the avenue, as though they owned it, or were maybe owned by it.
| Game | Time | WPM | Accuracy |
|---|---|---|---|
| 17841 | 2020-11-21 02:46:58 | 131.36 | 98% |
| 10430 | 2020-09-16 00:17:49 | 130.06 | 98% |
| 9356 | 2020-09-01 03:03:45 | 122.66 | 97% |
| 6926 | 2020-08-02 06:27:39 | 111.24 | 97% |
| 2930 | 2020-05-29 19:51:58 | 105.06 | 97% |