A Day in the Life

3:24 a.m. Denny Way. After hooking up with some friends to see what the after-party soundtrack might be, it turns out tonight's is silent. After foraging for beer around Capitol Hill and heading to someone's apartment, we're left to our own conversation and a sound-off TV playing an animé DVD before our host hands out markers, pastels, and paper, requesting drawings for her wall.

Walking back to Lower Queen Anne, I make my own soundtrack—or rather, my 60GB iPod, set on shuffle, does it for me. The playlist: DJ Krust, "Asian Love Dance (Remix)"; Count Basie, "Rhythm Man"; Richard Hell & the Voidoids, "Liars Beware"; Alfie, "Cloudy Lemonade"; Jimmie Rodgers, "T for Texas (Blue Yodel No. 1)"; the Lost Generation, "The Sly, Slick and the Wicked"; Gogol Bordello, "Sally"; Funk Deluxe, "This Time (Original 12" Mix)"; Hugh Le Caine, "Dripsody"; H-Bomb Ferguson, "She's Been Gone"; John Kirby Sextet, "Coquette"; Trenchmouth, "Washington! Washington!" MICHAELANGELO MATOS

4:15 a.m. Five Point Cafe, Belltown. I expected this scene to be a little more tragic. If you're still out at a place like this at this time of night, there's probably a good reason you shouldn't be at home. But the Five Point, a 24-hour diner and all-day bar a short stumble from the Belltown corridor, is packed two hours after last call. It turns out that reasonable people don't just fall into bed after a long night out—they come to places like this to load up on grease and rinse the night out of their brains before driving clear-eyed into the sunrise.

It looks like a dive but feels like a day spa. Aside from the guy at the bar who's nervously texting his dealer, Seattle's night creatures look like they're ready for a nature hike. The jukebox mists the place with music to give everyone a soft landing—nothing too edgy or unfamiliar, just the lesser hits of the Cult, the Cure, Nine Inch Nails, Guns N' Roses, and so on. Everyone knows the music, and no one cares. It's exactly what we need—just enough noise to give the place an atmosphere, nothing more.

The jukebox goes quiet at 4:30. The bar opens again at 6, but nobody's up for it. People pay their checks and grab their coats. The waitress watches and waits, then sneakily cues up a new round of songs as the last of them files out the door. MATTHEW CORWINE

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