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 |
---|---|---|---|
53 | 2017-09-01 20:43:06 | 75.71 | 100% |