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 |
|---|---|---|---|
| 41835 | 2019-07-12 16:16:23 | 142.44 | 99% |
| 37804 | 2018-12-23 18:36:51 | 125.65 | 98% |
| 34785 | 2018-08-15 15:50:50 | 142.08 | 98% |
| 34544 | 2018-07-31 14:32:16 | 138.90 | 98% |
| 33041 | 2018-06-28 13:13:08 | 131.97 | 98% |