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 |
|---|---|---|---|
| 8895 | 2019-09-27 14:57:49 | 118.22 | 99% |
| 3339 | 2018-11-16 13:59:41 | 105.29 | 98% |
| 2139 | 2018-10-15 15:09:37 | 108.79 | 98% |
| 1721 | 2018-09-20 13:28:45 | 109.55 | 99% |
| 1190 | 2018-09-14 12:56:59 | 106.19 | 98% |