In this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don't love your eyes; they'd just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands.
| Game | Time | WPM | Accuracy |
|---|---|---|---|
| 1001145 | 2024-01-30 20:12:04 | 158.35 | 97.8% |