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 |
|---|---|---|---|
| 169769 | 2020-03-03 21:38:34 | 114.01 | 98% |
| 168629 | 2020-01-23 18:48:52 | 126.69 | 99% |
| 165995 | 2019-09-19 16:17:29 | 102.32 | 97% |
| 158201 | 2019-04-05 21:30:50 | 110.62 | 98% |
| 150131 | 2018-10-16 20:11:04 | 133.05 | 99% |
| 149960 | 2018-10-12 17:57:00 | 115.09 | 99% |
| 148068 | 2018-09-14 17:27:07 | 126.06 | 99% |
| 139517 | 2018-05-21 19:53:48 | 110.36 | 98% |
| 137735 | 2018-05-04 13:31:14 | 117.68 | 98% |