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 |
|---|---|---|---|
| 9950 | 2019-08-20 14:54:59 | 121.13 | 99% |
| 8977 | 2019-06-28 19:25:39 | 68.99 | 99% |
| 7435 | 2019-05-01 14:55:16 | 94.07 | 97% |
| 6790 | 2019-04-12 19:42:06 | 61.71 | 98% |
| 6313 | 2019-03-27 17:37:27 | 108.51 | 98% |
| 4226 | 2018-12-21 14:43:36 | 115.06 | 98% |
| 2650 | 2018-08-17 19:19:52 | 95.06 | 98% |
| 1191 | 2018-05-30 14:55:15 | 106.97 | 98% |