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 |
|---|---|---|---|
| 32409 | 2020-11-26 03:42:24 | 180.21 | 99% |
| 24004 | 2020-07-21 20:34:45 | 147.58 | 97% |
| 20388 | 2020-06-11 01:22:11 | 137.97 | 99% |
| 19611 | 2020-06-04 00:11:23 | 134.68 | 97% |
| 13795 | 2020-05-06 04:09:34 | 141.26 | 98% |
| 9599 | 2020-04-03 22:54:30 | 135.22 | 98% |
| 6605 | 2019-10-05 15:56:47 | 116.76 | 99% |
| 5918 | 2019-07-27 19:52:21 | 130.36 | 99% |