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 |
|---|---|---|---|
| 21774 | 2020-05-10 12:49:17 | 112.44 | 97% |
| 18646 | 2020-03-06 10:57:41 | 108.75 | 97% |
| 18425 | 2020-03-01 14:21:50 | 103.02 | 97% |
| 14037 | 2019-07-19 18:25:25 | 102.93 | 97% |
| 10926 | 2019-01-22 18:58:12 | 93.50 | 97% |
| 9023 | 2018-11-21 19:52:07 | 95.09 | 97% |
| 8718 | 2018-11-15 21:19:12 | 90.32 | 96% |
| 5401 | 2018-08-22 11:05:36 | 83.01 | 96% |
| 2793 | 2018-06-02 07:40:05 | 69.44 | 96% |
| 1863 | 2018-05-15 18:38:17 | 79.86 | 96% |