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 |
|---|---|---|---|
| 11498 | 2020-05-09 23:07:14 | 150.59 | 98% |
| 9109 | 2020-01-29 21:17:32 | 137.02 | 96% |
| 7267 | 2019-11-09 21:11:00 | 161.01 | 99% |
| 6476 | 2019-10-17 19:56:53 | 146.66 | 98% |
| 4085 | 2019-06-08 22:56:03 | 147.42 | 98% |