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 |
|---|---|---|---|
| 19930 | 2020-06-11 08:57:45 | 151.36 | 98% |
| 13542 | 2020-03-29 04:15:25 | 147.05 | 99% |
| 7308 | 2020-01-19 19:02:11 | 141.69 | 99% |
| 4145 | 2020-01-02 20:37:15 | 140.92 | 99% |
| 3374 | 2019-11-24 19:05:07 | 124.81 | 99% |
| 2303 | 2019-10-05 17:59:48 | 135.62 | 98% |