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 |
|---|---|---|---|
| 15727 | 2019-05-01 14:55:06 | 110.72 | 97% |
| 14891 | 2019-04-17 14:30:11 | 99.68 | 97% |
| 12691 | 2019-03-27 17:44:41 | 100.68 | 98% |
| 9297 | 2019-03-04 01:10:48 | 94.66 | 98% |
| 9197 | 2019-03-02 02:28:48 | 81.80 | 95% |