It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to inanimate things; trees, streams, flowers; felt they expressed one; felt they became one; felt they knew one, in a sense were one; felt an irrational tenderness thus (she looked at that long steady light) as for oneself.
—from To the Lighthouse, a book by Virginia Woolf
Active since January 1, 1970.
280 total characters in this text.
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| Rank | Username | WPM | Accuracy | Date |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1. | (keegant) | 162.48 | 99.3% | 2024-01-29 |
| 2. | (charlieog) | 141.32 | 99% | 2024-02-07 |
| 3. | -ⲘᎯᖇⲕ⋎⟆- (mark4... | 129.71 | 99.6% | 2024-02-11 |
| 4. | (clergy) | 108.84 | 97.1% | 2024-02-12 |
| 5. | [BOT] (slowtexts) | 98.19 | 98% | 2024-01-14 |
| 6. | -ˏˋ 🌟 ˎˊ- (rektless) | 80.05 | 98% | 2024-03-15 |
| Universe | Races | Average WPM | First Race |
|---|---|---|---|
| Instant Death Mode | 11 | 91.13 | August 28, 2017 |
| Default (English) | 0 | 0.00 | January 1, 1970 |