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 |
|---|---|---|---|
| 38166 | 2020-04-22 05:49:27 | 109.14 | 97% |
| 32443 | 2020-03-16 12:31:35 | 72.14 | 95% |
| 29178 | 2020-02-27 12:44:37 | 80.35 | 96% |
| 28383 | 2020-02-23 14:20:19 | 72.91 | 96% |
| 28098 | 2020-02-23 07:10:18 | 104.84 | 97% |
| 23908 | 2019-10-04 11:11:27 | 103.16 | 98% |
| 18050 | 2019-07-28 09:49:03 | 69.29 | 96% |
| 14595 | 2019-06-17 12:47:17 | 71.55 | 96% |
| 9727 | 2019-04-23 08:28:47 | 91.72 | 97% |
| 7016 | 2019-03-30 16:11:49 | 65.87 | 96% |