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 |
|---|---|---|---|
| 28669 | 2020-11-16 05:55:59 | 82.81 | 95% |
| 26383 | 2020-10-11 20:58:40 | 70.81 | 95% |
| 26056 | 2020-10-09 05:54:28 | 96.54 | 98% |
| 24051 | 2020-09-15 18:40:12 | 82.11 | 95% |
| 23476 | 2020-09-10 23:38:48 | 81.19 | 94% |
| 23280 | 2020-09-09 01:26:15 | 89.46 | 96% |
| 22345 | 2020-09-03 02:45:54 | 88.75 | 97% |
| 20039 | 2020-07-27 16:40:03 | 85.54 | 97% |
| 13906 | 2020-05-06 01:03:00 | 98.34 | 97% |
| 8652 | 2020-03-27 20:38:42 | 78.64 | 95% |
| 47 | 2019-11-01 02:36:13 | 77.33 | 96% |