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 |
|---|---|---|---|
| 9600 | 2018-11-03 04:54:29 | 83.98 | 97% |
| 5676 | 2018-04-07 17:46:42 | 69.67 | 96% |
| 5448 | 2018-04-05 18:29:16 | 69.18 | 96% |
| 3234 | 2018-03-07 17:35:06 | 57.11 | 95% |
| 2450 | 2018-02-16 18:57:33 | 65.15 | 97% |