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 |
|---|---|---|---|
| 49251 | 2020-09-30 21:52:42 | 126.07 | 95% |
| 47035 | 2020-02-12 19:35:13 | 108.25 | 97% |
| 43549 | 2019-10-11 21:04:37 | 116.45 | 95% |
| 39534 | 2019-06-22 14:02:54 | 110.99 | 95% |
| 38723 | 2019-06-10 20:36:19 | 110.60 | 95% |
| 37066 | 2019-05-18 22:54:07 | 107.59 | 95% |
| 35505 | 2019-04-26 21:22:27 | 111.73 | 94% |
| 33453 | 2019-03-03 15:38:02 | 129.90 | 96% |
| 33110 | 2019-02-20 22:15:59 | 135.00 | 97% |
| 26665 | 2018-10-11 17:03:15 | 121.54 | 96% |
| 21307 | 2018-08-06 16:44:26 | 121.77 | 97% |